It's Saturday evening and I know that no one is going to be reading this right now, but I am going to write a post anyway.

Because I have nothing better to do.  Because I am really fucking important and when I say stuff it should be considered news even if it isn't.  Because I have nothing to say but I still feel the need to say things.  Because I care.

So anyway... I might be dying.  I know I've said that before - probably lots of times - but this time it is totally possible.   And it isn't from Ebola.  I still might have Ebola, but I guess I'll never know because I am dying from something new now.

Remember how I live in Montana?  Well, Montana is really, really fucking cold right now (and yes, using the F-word was totally necessary there because you wouldn't understand how cold it is if I just said "really, really cold").  It was eight degrees last night.  Eight.  Degrees.  Fahrenheit.  (In slightly less amazing news, I know how to spell Fahrenheit all by myself.  Who needs spell check when you can spell Fahrenheit all by yourself?  Answer:  No one.)   That's -13 degrees Celsius to my international readers.   Yeah, my blog has readers in other countries.  It's no big deal...

Anyway, I just got back from a run.  I snuck onto a private golf course and ran around in the snow.

Did I mention that it snowed here too?  Because it did.  It snowed like 5 inches.

Do you ever wake up and look outside and your yard is covered in a perfect blanket of completely untouched snow and then you get an immediate, unconquerable urge to go out and destroy that perfection as soon as possible?  And because of the urgency you feel, you don't even have time to put on pants and then you are running around in your yard kicking the snow and your neighbors are sitting in their house eating breakfast and suddenly they don't feel like eating breakfast anymore because they are so embarrassed that the rest of the neighborhood can see your shorts that are kind of actually underwear but also kind of shorts that you wear in public sometimes because they are definitely more shorts than underwear but not everyone else feels that way?

Well, that's how I feel about snow.

And I wasn't satisfied with just destroying the snow in my yard.  I was for a little bit, but I came inside and then I started thinking about how much snow there was in other places and that that snow was probably still perfect and undisturbed and it was just sitting there on the ground feeling all high and mighty and I just had to go knock it out of its fucking high tower.  I had to find something bigger and better than my yard -- hence the golf course.

I had a lot of fun running up and down the fairways and destroying the snow - especially because I wasn't supposed to be there.  Every step was like a mini - revolution!  Basically, it was like being Che Guevara - who is the only revolutionary I can think of right now and whose name I also know how to spell.  And that's a good thing because spell check doesn't know who Che Guevara is.   But it wasn't just like being Che Guevara.  It was like being Che Guevara and also destroying snow.  It was awesome!

Anyway, it was really cold and windy, and I was out destroying snow for a very long time, so by the time I got back to my car, I was numb almost everywhere.  But I decided that I needed potato chips more than I needed to be warm, so I went to the grocery store before going home but there was a really long line and I was like "seriously?" And the grocery store was serious because the line didn't move any faster.

So I finally got my chips and then I went home and by the time I got in the door, I was shivering so violently that I couldn't even eat my chips.  And I realized it was probably because I was still all wet from destroying snow, so I took off my clothes but then I couldn't find my goddamn sweatpants because Boyfriend took them upstairs instead of leaving them in the middle of the floor where I was keeping them and I didn't want to go upstairs because I was too cold, so I got all mad at Boyfriend for moving my sweatpants and he was like "you shouldn't have left them in the middle of the floor!"

And I was like "you will never understand me!" and I tried to run away dramatically but it just looked funny because I wasn't wearing pants.

Then I got all pouty and tried to convince Boyfriend that is was his fault that I was cold so that he'd feel guilty and go upstairs and get my sweatpants for me, but he just ignored me, so I went over to the corner where there was a pile of my dirty clothes and I put on a sweatshirt and a skirt and wrapped myself in a blanket like a burrito.

And now I am sitting on my couch writing a completely pointless post so that you guys can feel sorry for me.  It is probably a subconscious attempt at seeking out the understanding that I couldn't get from Boyfriend earlier.   But seriously... how is it that he does not understand yet that I keep things in the middle of the floor?  If I don't keep my stuff in the middle of the floor, I might need to go upstairs to find it and that would just be ridiculous!

I'm sorry if this post was the worst thing that I have ever written, but you shouldn't judge me because I tried really hard and I didn't have to write a post for you since you probably aren't going to read it anyway.   You probably aren't even at your computer.  In fact, you are probably out doing fun things while I am sitting here wrapped up like a burrito writing a meaningless, rambling post that no one will read and it will just sit at the top of my page with no comments and I will start worrying that first-time visitors to my blog will see this post first and think "wow, this blog is lame! And it doesn't even get any comments!  Ptooo!" (That was the sound of them spitting on my blog.)  And then I will feel bad and die faster because I will be unhappy and being unhappy makes you stressed and being stressed makes you die faster.

Plus, I typed most of this post with only one finger because my hands are still kind of numb and that is just pathetic and you should feel sorry for me.  I also think I might be hypothermic.  That's why I am going to die.  I probably should have mentioned that earlier in the post.   Oh well.

Edit:  I just read this to Boyfriend and he looked kind of upset and he didn't even laugh.  So I asked him why he didn't laugh and he said that it was because I lied.  He says that he didn't actually ignore me when I pouted about not having sweatpants and that he actually asked me if I wanted him to go upstairs and get my sweatpants for me.  I don't know if I believe him because if I believed him I'd have to be really upset with myself for wasting so much of my valuable pouting energy trying to get Boyfriend to do something that he already volunteered to do but I didn't hear him.

Edit: I just read that last edit to Boyfriend to see if he would be satisfied with my portrayal of his actions and then he told me that when he asked if he could go get my sweatpants for me, I actually responded to him.  With words.  With English words that I don't remember saying.  And that is not all!  Boyfriend says that when I responded to his question that I don't remember hearing or responding to, I actually told him that I *didn't* want him to go upstairs and get my sweatpants.  And now I am stuck wondering whether Boyfriend is lying or I am crazy and neither option is a good option and I am upset.

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I woke up yesterday morning and became vaguely aware that my right toe felt like - well, the best way to describe it would be "dying-death-kill-maim-destroy-ness."  

This was only slightly more annoying than the fact that it was 6:00 AM on the only day I could sleep in and I could not get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until 6:37 and then decided that going to the ER would be a good idea because I was 96% sure that there was a firemonster in my toe.  

So it was that I found myself competing for medical attention with a burn victim, a dying six-year-old and a man with what appeared to be a dragon-conquering wound.  They were all looking at me like I did not deserve to be there.   

When it was finally my turn to be seen by the doctor, he asked me what was wrong and I had to look him in the face and say "my toe hurts."  

He asked me if I had a blister.   I was a little offended that he had so grossly underestimated my ability to accurately assess pain.  

"It's not a blister," I told him with what I hoped was an icy glare.  

He proceeded to ask me if I had a splinter.     

"It's not a splinter,"  I said in a low, menacing tone.  I wanted to tell him that it was probably a firemonster, but doctors don't like it when you beat them to a diagnosis.  I decided to play it cool.  

The doctor asked me to remove my socks.  Upon seeing my bulbous, throbbing toe, he appeared to take me a little more seriously.  

After asking me about several pleasantly legitimate possible sources of pain, like hammer wounds, rabid spiders and gout, he said "I'm going to order you some antibiotics just in case..."  

As it turns out, I may have an infection in my bone.  This means that I have to take a ludicrous amount of antibiotics every six hours to prevent death.  

My body doesn't seem to understand that the antibiotics are on its side.  So far, it has tried virtually every trick in the book to violently expel the antibiotics from my system.   I've tried to talk to my body about its behavior.  I told it that it was going to die if it didn't learn to get along with the antibiotics.  It didn't seem to care.  It is a stupid, stubborn little body - the kind of body that would die just to prove a point.  

I have since changed my angle.  I am now trying to appeal to my body's competitive side.  I told it that death means failure.  I asked it if it wanted to fail.  It made a gurgling sound which I interpreted to mean "no."  I said "Okay then, if you don't want to fail, I would suggest not dying.  Nobody wins if you die."  

I don't know whether or not I got through to it, but I am encouraged by the fact that my body has yet to follow through on dying.  Though I'd like to give myself credit for convincing my body not to die, the truth is there is another more plausible explanation for my continuing survival:  For all of its stubbornness, my body is also lazy - so lazy that it may forgo dying simply because it is too much work.   

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Today, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, you managed to redeem yourself.
You see, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, I managed to contract the Mutant-Death-Flu. This particular disease is merciless, as you may already know. I am sure the same thin walls which allow your musical conquests to enrich my environment did little to disguise my pathetic whimpering and violent retching as I lay dying on my bathroom floor.

In between vomiting sessions, I found myself curled into the fetal position beneath my toilet, staring at a wadded up Kleenex because I was sure it was the only thing keeping me in this world. I then realized this was the kind of illness one should not try to conquer alone. I needed medical attention.
The problem, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, was that I needed a ride. Oh how desperately I needed a ride to the campus health center! You are the only person in my apartment complex who doesn't have a job, therefore the duty of being my hero fell upon you. I didn't want it to be you. I really didn't. But in the end, you were there for me.

When I was finally near enough to death to justify knocking on your door at 2:30 in the afternoon, you emerged like a bat seeing light for the first time. Your entire mouth was stained neon blue from the 44-ounce Slushy you were still clutching in your hands. A TV show, possibly Battlestar Galactica, was playing in the background. You were wearing that wretched V-neck sweater. Nonetheless, when you heard me plaintively request to be driven to a medical establishment, you sprung to action. You sprinted to retrieve your keys with the kind of grace only achieved by adult man-children wearing combat boots and tight, black tapered jeans. I truly appreciated your haste.
I slumped into your Subaru with the automatic seat belts. I didn't even mind that I was sitting on a week's worth of Burger King wrappers. You told me that you wouldn't hold it against me if I puked in your car. Thank you, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor.
I could tell you were trying your best to not talk about your life and how much you don't like it. When you couldn't think of anything else to talk about, you simply turned on your Moby CD really loud (it was super loud, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor) and left me in peace. Thank you.

You were driving really fast. You understood the urgency of my intestinal plight, and responded. Thank you. I am sorry I smelled like bile. Was that why you had to have your window open in the middle of February?
Upon my admittance to said medical establishment, you even came back to check in on me. This was completely unnecessary and awkward, but I admired your chivalry. You stood over my bed until you were absolutely certain that your heroic moment was over. Over, but not forgotten, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor. Over, but not forgotten.
Because of your bravery and quick, instinctive action, I hereby grant you 400 full repetitions of the chorus to "Yellow Submarine" free from my judgement. You earned it, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor!

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