That escalated quickly.

It was shaping up to be a slow week when it seemed that trying Icelandic yogurt (skyr) was the most exciting thing I did all week. The thrill lay within my lactose intolerance: Is this going to cause gastrointestinal distress? Will it be worth it? (It was delicious.)

Then on Friday night, I started painting the modeling clay tongue that I made earlier in the week. I’d pierced it with two barbells while the clay was still soft. To make painting easier, I removed the jewelry and placed them in one of the wells of my paint tray so that they wouldn’t roll off my adjustable desk. I forgot about this when cleaning up: I dumped the tray in the kitchen sink and washed the leftover paint down the drain, along with the barbells.

I was not high when I did this. Truthfully, I hadn’t realized what I’d done until I was high.

My Pilea Mollis serving Little Shop of Horrors realness.
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February 11, 2008 Throwback blog post.

The x-raying went alright.

An animated Gif featuring Milhouse Van Houten pinned under a malfunctioning x-ray machine that pulses beams at his head. His skull flashes as the machine pulses a green beam.

I was in and out of the lab within ten minutes. Now I need to wait three to four days for the doctor to hem and haw before confirming that I have osteoarthritis. That’s my guess. It’s been my guess since I was in my early twenties. I’ve already had this self-diagnosis rejected by several doctors. I was too young, they said. Ideally, yes, but I’ll bet I’m an early bloomer when it comes to geriatric ailments. I mean, because of dissolving tooth enamel, 30% of my teeth have already been capped with either porcelain or gold.

The following three paragraphs were going to be whiny, but they’re gone now. My mental well-being is dependent on my level of physical activity: too much rest leaves me restless. I’m going to try not to spend my recovery time sitting around writing depressing blog posts.

Today’s throwback post is from the time a Boomer judged me for buying avocado. The incident took place in 2008, long before the avocado toast controversy. Perhaps it was me who sparked the whole debate?

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November 6, 2006 Throwback blog post.

Yesterday, when I mentioned the guy who interrupted my footlong chowing session at Subway with an unwanted strip show, I had to dig through my archives for the post. It took a while, as I’d archived my posts by the month. As I originally lived in Victoria for about four years, I had to sift through about forty months before finally finding the entry, and… it was underwhelming. If you wish to be underwhelmed, I can email it to you.

During my journey through the past, I uncovered some doozies. I spit out my tea when I read, “Has anybody noticed how it’s the bitchy girls who like Winnie the Pooh?”

Past me slays Now me.

The throwback post I’m sharing today isn’t about Winnie the Pooh or bitchy girls, but my transition from having a chaotic roommate to being the chaotic roommate.

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Festering childhood memories.

Okay. I’m in love.

I’m in love with Ponyboy, which means Rocky got sold. I’d posted Rocky on Craigslist and UsedVic over a month ago, and go no bites. Was it that the bike was too expensive, or people have terrible taste? Then Rocky ended up on Facebook Marketplace via someone else’s account. First week: nothing. Then, last week, the sun was shining and all of a sudden people were interested.

Before I knew it, Rocky was gone. I wasn’t even around for the transaction. It was awesome of my co-workers to help sell the bike so that I didn’t have to organize a meet-up only to get ghosted. I genuinely had so little hope that the guy would show up on Friday and actually buy the bike. So, I’m showing my gratitude by flooding the shop with baked goods.

Yann asked me if I missed Rocky yet. I don’t, but it is weird knowing that the bike isn’t mine anymore. I’ll probably still see it around the city, possibly being mistreated by the new owner. It’ll be easy for me to spot as I haven’t ever seen another bike like it in Victoria. Or France:

Rocky before Rocky before an armless lady with meaty thighs. (Banyuls-sur-Mer, France.)
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