Sleep

I have friends that say they love sleeping with their loved one. That they prefer it, they like to cuddle and feel safe and all that crap. I for one am not one of those people. Most of you are probably like, “oooh well it’s because you’ve never even slept with a guy, how can that be true, you don’t even know.”

Know what the answer to that is?

“Shut the hell up”. That’s what.

I don’t need to conduct an experiment to know the idea of sharing even one part of my mattress or a sliver of the blankets drives me up a friggen wall. I like my space, I like to fling around, and I like to wake up in the morning curled in a knot of blankets that takes me half an hour to get out of. Unless I have some freakishly long bed where I can’t even see the other person, I don’t want them to have any part of my sleeping pattern. There are a few specific reasons too.

One being that when I sleep, I fling around like a fish out of water. It takes me about ten minutes or so to get comfy, and I don’t know whether or not I’ll be sleeping on the inside or the outside of the bed. I don’t think I should be obligated to a side of the bed! It’s my damn bed.  I roll around my bed, curling my arms around my pillows, going into fetal position, lying flat on my back, to curling my legs around the blankets like some failed act from Cirque du Soleil: Obese Edition or some such shit.  

Furthermore, I have an unexplainable ability to wake up with clothing either completely off my body, or somehow parts of me have fallen out that I would most like to conceal. I don’t need to wake up and look over at my loved one, smile after a good night’s sleep to look down and discover my titty has somehow made its way out from my tank top, or in fact, my pants are missing. Sometimes I like to sleep with loose pants, and inevitably they fall down, revealing my not so in-shape ass to the world.

When I was younger, I would wake up with my pyjamas off and I honestly thought I had been abducted by aliens. This isn’t even a joke. I remember it quite well. 

Since I haven’t slept over at anyone’s in a while, or in the same bed with them for that fact, I don’t really know what is to be expected of me. I have extremely vivid dreams, and I can’t say yes or no as to whether or not I thrash around the bed trying to fight off the dinosaurs I tend to dream of at least once a week. I was told one time on a field trip that I had been moaning in my sleep, on the bus, in front of the whole group of kids. That didn’t go over too well with me and has turned me off sleep overs as well. Nothing about sleeping with someone else seems appealing to me. Sure I’ll cuddle, but you can go home once I’m tired. 

I don’t even plan on sharing a bed with my husband to be honest. We can share a room, but I want my own bed. One time someone told me that was stupid and what’s the point to getting married if you aren’t sharing a bed? Obviously this person has strange morals and I didn’t listen to them.

Hands

As an artist, I have pretty good hand-eye coordination. I’m kick ass when it comes to catching things. If I’m all, “Hey mom pass me the converter!” and she throws me it, I catch that shit like a cat. Better than my cat actually, because my cat’s a dumbass. But that’s an entirely different story. However, there is one thing I lack at, and I don’t even know how to specify it. I have come to the conclusion that my hands have a mind of their own and are in fact not part of my body.

Ever been holding something and you go to move it and it flings out of your hand like a poltergeist has taken hold of it? That’s my hands, but all the time. The simple task of picking something up turns into a warzone, or will result in objects flinging halfway across the room.

For example, the other day I went to pick up my body cream. I looked forward to being moisturized and it didn’t occur to me that anything bad would or even could happen with the simple task of lifting a bottle of body moisturizer. Apparently I was wrong.

Upon lifting the bottle from my desk, my hands decided that no, they didn’t not want to hold the moisturizer and slammed them back on the desk. My hands didn’t just let go of the moisturizer, they forcefully slammed the damned bottle on my desk creating a mess of the other things that were on my desk. I don’t think that these things, whatever they happened to be at the time, were very happy.

This has happened on many occasions. One memorable time in particular, during gym we each had to throw a baseball to our partners. Now I’m sure you’re aware by this point that I lack any type of motivation to be physical, and I’ll also tell you I suck at every sport imaginable. Every single sport.

Anyways, we were instructed to throw the balls to our partner. Okay, cool, what could be so hard in that? The answer should be nothing, apparently for my hands and terrible athletic skills the answer was everything. Our teacher blew the whistle and what did my hands do? Instead of throwing the ball like my mind had planned, my hands said, “Hell no” and slammed the ball right on the ground. There was no majestic toss of the ball. Not even a feeble throw that made it half way. My hands just threw it on the ground. They weren’t having any of this baseball nonsense. Needless to say I never tried out for baseball. 

Also, pencils. My hands hate holding pencils, which is kind of odd considering it’s my main tool when I’m making my beautiful and sometimes breathe taking works of art. But nope, any time the pencil in my hand gets even a bit loose, my hand flings that shit across the room like it’s nobody’s business. I will somehow move my hand in such a way that the pencil flies across like a Canadian goose going south. Except I like my pencil and want it stay. I could give to farts about geese. I have often had to drag my large self across the room because of it.

Having to explain to your teacher that you have somehow thrown your pencil across a class room is a bit difficult when you are unsure as to why it happened yourself.

Skin Puppets

I was going to bed last night and I realized I should go get some goodnight hugs. So I went, and I got some, and they were awesome. Which brings me to part of this posts topic. Hugs.

Hugs are wonderful, truly god’s gift to earth. If you are feeling bad and  you hug someone,  you’re instantly a little bit better! I don’t know why doctors haven’t prescribed hugs yet for depression, anxiety, panic and so forth.

Before a hug:
 

After a hug:

It’s a cure all, like soup. In fact, I bet the cure to cancer has been under our noses the whole time. Who needs chemo when I’ve got hugs!

Don’t actually replace chemo with hugs though. That’s probably a bad idea.

Enough about hugs and on to the good stuff.

What I dislike. A lot.

Stretching.

There has never been something as dissatisfying as stretching. You start off a stretch feeling like this is what you really need. I feel tense so I’m going to stretch! I’ll feel relieved, and better for it! So you start off. Stretching all good.

You feel like things are going well. You get that little shiver of feel good, you can hear it in your ears, like a whisper from the divine hug gods. Encouraging you, “keep going, keep going” and you do. Because damn it! This stretch will be the best friggen stretch I’ve ever had.

But then things start to get weird, you’re starting to relax from that god gifted stretch and something doesn’t feel right. You don’t feel as good as you should after a good stretch. Instead, your muscles feel like they’ve been turned to bologna, or some other low quality luncheon meat. Your bones have turned to noodles.

This isn’t right. Just a second ago the gods had gifted you with this magnificent stretch. Now you’re a lump of bologna and noodles. And that isn’t appealing to the body in any sense. For some reason, you also end up tired. Why are you tired? It wasn’t even like that was much of an exercise. I may be out of shape, but a stretch shouldn’t have this much of an effect on my body. I can go up the stairs and feel less exhausted then when I stretch. You’re confused at this point. Wondering why you even began to stretch at all, because you knew this was coming. It happens every time you stretch. Why would this be any different?

Our bodies are tricking us, making us tired for no reason. I’ve discovered that our bodies are against us, making us tired so our bodies can take over our minds. Soon the whole world will be stretching and walking up stairs until we’re mindless skin puppets listening not to our minds but our bodies. What will our bodies want to accomplish? I don’t know. I don’t listen to it.

Trust no one. Especially yourself.

All Natural Continued.

 If you haven't read the first part to this, do that now.

We got back, and for a reason beyond me, parked as far away from the dorms as possible. I grabbed my stuff and waddled my ass to my room. I yelled bloody murder at my bathroom mate on the off chance she was showering. She wasn’t and I felt like it was a gift from god. I stripped out of my slippery gross clothes and jumped in the shower. The warm water hit me and I was in heaven. Little did I know this bliss would not last very long.

I began to wash my hair and immediately the mixture these people called paint started to drip down my face again. Once again I was forced to endure that salty bitter taste and burnt eye ball.

My eye is still angry at me but I was washing my hair, loving the fact that I would once again be clean and fresh.

I soon discovered my washing was not going as well as planned. I rinsed and realized there were still chunks of flowery goop stuck in my hair. Try as I might I couldn’t rid my hair of this caked on playdoh paint mess. It had dried into my hair and I shampooed and conditioned once more before I realized I would have to get my brush.

I jumped out of the shower, grabbed my brush and hopped back in. I began to brush. The pain, ooooh goodness the pain. It felt like somebody had pulled Velcro through every strand of my hair. Like rats were gnawing on my scalp.  Like Freddy Krueger was tickling my head. There isn’t really a popular description.

I was literally ripping hair out of my head, and still nothing was happening. I looked around my shower stall and realized I had spread the “paint” all across the shower. It covered the walls and the floors, it looked like a blue sneeze.

This process of brushing and washing and conditioning and brushing and washing and brushing went on for half an hour. I felt terrible to Mother Nature for using all her water. At least the pain was all natural?

Half an hour later and my locks were gunk free and I had washed down the shower. I was finally clean and missing a large chunk of my hair from the back of my head. I had learned an important lesson. Never, ever put watered down playdoh in your hair.

All Natural

I love my hair. It is a mane of beauty. Horses would be jealous of this hair. I can’t explain to you enough how much I love my hair. What I lack in a figure, I make up for luscious locks. It’s like an herbal essence commercial all the time. Not the old orgasm ones though. I don’t do that. I’m not crazy.

I also like to think that I keep up pretty well in the hygiene department. I have all kinds of good smelling things and essential oils. You name it. I bring this up because recently my hair and myself encountered something that completely ruined any security I ever had with my hair being clean. What was it?

All natural paint.

Ever seen what’s in all natural paint? Well neither have I, until it got thrown in my hair and all across my body. Now don’t be like, “well where the hell were you that you got paint thrown on you, that’s just stupid.”

Well guess what; stop asking questions, it’s my blog.

If you must know, I was at a paint war. Where you and a group of friends get paint and proceed to throw it at each other for a raucous good time. I, being that naïve thing I am, pictured something like this:

Instead, I got something like this:

There are a few reasons I would make a face like that.

First of all, I was under the impression that the day would be nice. No, I shouldn’t have been. And the reason is that I live in Sault Ste. Marie; where the weather has never been pleasant. Ever. In fact, as I type this, I can hear the potentially Gael force winds blowing my lecture room around. We have no windows so I’m going to ahead and assume I’ll be arriving in OZ any time now. I hope I don’t land on a witch. I don’t have the time for a lawsuit.

The day we went was pissing rain. Not a drizzle. A full on rain. But we thought, oh okay cool, well it’ll rain and we can have the paint wash off. Guess what! As soon as we started fighting, the rain stopped. Coincidence? No. The weather hates my guts.

Second of all, we start playing. Fun times! Everyone is having a blast. “Hehehehe, this is so fun guys!” We all yell. Jolly good times.

And then it hits me…

The paint: right in my face, my eyes, my hair, my nose, my mouth, and my ears. As it oozed down my face and explored every orifice it could reach into, I discovered what was in it.

Salt. So much salt. You remember when you would want play doh and your mom would bitch at you and say how she could make you it and it was just as good and blah blah blah but it totally wasn’t and always turned out an ugly colour and dried fast?  It was the same recipe.

Flour, salt, water, food colouring, but just more water than anything else. It was horrible. It burned, and stung and tasted awful and my one eye wouldn’t open for a good few seconds.

I stumbled around the place half-blindly looking for a sweater or something to wipe my eye out. Thankfully I found one and proceeded to have a darn good time. Ever so slowly though, everyone started to realize the true horror of this “paint”. They all got it in their eyes and mouths and noses and half an hour in we wanted to leave.

We were drenched in this foul tasting gunky, slippery mess that we called paint, trekking through mud and the rain to get back to our cars. Our faces itchy, dry and burning, our hair starting to dry up all we wanted was a shower. It wasn’t until we got back and started to shower that we realized the truth behind the all-natural paint…