Wendy

Ladies and gentlemen, your playlist:

De La Soul – 3 Ft. High and Rising
Eazy E – Eazy Duz It
Paula Abdul – Forever Your Girl
3rd bass – The Cactus Cee/D
Debarge – Time Will Reveal

If you go back far enough, you can determine the exact moment that led to what you are and who you became. For instance, I try to be a stand up guy now because of guilt I have from setting up a guy in the first grade.
I drew in a text book, blamed it on him, and he was a troubled student from that point on. It is possible he would’ve become a bad kid without my help but why disprove my own thesis statement?

Going back, I can pinpoint the various moments that have led to my casual distrust yet constant faith in women’s overall goodness. As I have said, you have to know women may screw you over, but you can never believe it. Once you believe it, it’s all done.

Hold on…I’m not about to start another “women are crazy” tirade. I just want to explain how I understand why Charlie Brown always thought that he might get to kick that football.

MOMENT ONE: FIRST GRADE
In the first grade I had a crush on Kim. Honestly, I don’t even know what I thought a crush was or where it would lead to, but I had one. In my love sick state I felt it was best to try and convey my feelings to the lovely brown skinned angel, so I did what any kid in my situation would do- I dictated a love letter to my mother. In the letter, I mentioned that I loved Kim, to which my mother asked if I knew what that meant. I can’t recall what my answer was then, but if given the chance to answer her now, I’d state that it was a one in a series of unnatural emotions like hate and jealousy, brought on by the renegade eating of a magic apple thousands of years ago. I would then assure her that all this being the case, I was still full of love, and had much of it to give. I was a bit of a sissy as a kid. I wept openly to the secret of NIMH on many nonconsecutive occasions. Maybe it was the Paul Williams love theme…
So, I took the neatly printed love letter from my mother, and took it with me to Mrs. Mills’ first grade class. After a few hours of building up the nerve, I gave her all my feelings on paper. Immediately after, she responded by emitting a loud, pronounced “Ewww!” and telling the teacher on me. Ah, amour.

MOMENT TWO: SIXTH GRADE
The sixth grade was a formative time for me. The Beastie Boys, Boogie Down Productions, and the 2 live crew challenged me musically. Three Amigos! And little Shop of Horrors kept me busy at the Movies. And a little girl named
Stephanie taught me about the cruel pettiness of the prepubescent North American female human. I’d had a crush on Stephanie since the third grade, and I figured that it was time that I did something about it. But what should I do? I’d need a classic method, one that conveyed style and grace as I confessed my intentions. I needed to give her the “Do you like me” letter. To those of you unfamiliar with this staple of young romance, I’ll explain. The execution I simple: You print the words “Do you like me” on a small note, followed by the choices Yes, No, and Maybe along with small check boxes. You want a Yes, but a Maybe will do. A Maybe means there is hope. A No can be painful, but at least you know where you stand. So, I passed Stephanie the note, and she took her time and read it. Then she began to write. This was a good sign. It was definitely a better sign than a loud “Ewww!” She passed the note back to me and watched as I slowly opened it. Inside, she had not checked No. But she hadn’t checked Yes or even Maybe. No, What Stephanie had done was added a larger NO! check box, then checked it. She found this to be hilarious. I hope her life is great.

MOMENT THREE: WENDY
I didn’t have a crush on Wendy at all. As a matter of fact, I can’t even be sure her name was actually Wendy. I doubt she’s made any great strides or advancements since I knew her. I would imagine that she is just another faceless, average mulatto woman in her early thirties, living the lower middle class life. But she made a mark on me. Wendy drew in my figurative text book. It was the eighth grade dance and it was Swanky to say the least. We all filed into the elementary school lunch room for a dinner of old-school square Board of Education pizza and corn. Even at that young age, I felt cheated. After our delicious meal, we were herded into the gym where the real action took place. By action, I meant repeatedly getting up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, then being turned down. There was a Soul Train line that I totally rocked, and a rap battle that was booed because one M.C. recycled lyrics from an earlier battle. Eventually, through process of elimination, I decided to ask Wendy to dance. I watched her from across the gym, waiting for my chance. She was surrounded by all her female cronies, most of which had already turned me down. I waited for my chance, but it never came. As I stood there as professional wallflower, Wendy approached me! I couldn’t believe it. She came over and asked me to dance. “Yeah!” I said happily, and followed her to the center of the floor. Finally, I was going to get a dance. That feeling of really wanting to do something, but not wanting to ruin the moment settled in the pit of my stomach. The invigorating yet terrifying feeling of anticipation that curses the typical wallflower was beginning to fall over me. I didn’t get a chance to work through any of these feelings. As soon as we reached the center of the floor, she turned to me and said “I change my mind” then returned to her cackling crew. I was the victim of yet another woman’s practical joke. The punch line was trying to figure out what to do after I took the seemingly mile long walk back to the wall as the girls all laughed.
Eventually, the dance came to an end and we all made our way outside to our parent’s cars. My ma came for me.
“How was it?” she asked.
“No one would dance with me” I answered, on the verge of tears.

COMMICAL/SARCASTIC FINAL THOUGHT
Sorry, not this time.
I’m gonna go watch NIMH

Fall Risk

This one speaks for itself...
In case of concern, know that this is from May 2008! I'm Fine now...

My original goal was to talk to you about how maddening and idiotic I find Facebook. I know that I’ve already talked about Myspace in the past, but apparently Facebook is better- in the way that vomiting in public is better than diarrhea in public, I guess.
But then I had a stroke.
As I sat there on the couch on my day off, watching the People’s Court for the same reason you probably watch it- sexy plaintiffs- my left hand began to tingle.
This was followed by a bit of a headache, and a slight inability to move the left side of my body.
I won’t try and convince you that I’m some sort of courageous hero by telling you that I was not afraid.
But, I was never truly afraid.
As you’ll find throughout this tale, I can be somewhat idiotic when it comes to my own well being. I hope that this revelation doesn’t cause you to reclaim your concern and pity. I appreciate it. But I can be stubborn and outright stupid- hence my 3rd stroke.
You see, I’d had these same symptoms two weeks earlier.
The first stroke came after a particularly successful Saturday morning house cleaning. When I felt the tingle coming on, I thought to myself “Damn it! I’m having a stroke! I don’t have any coverage, and I can’t afford an Ambulance!” I promptly took two aspirin, hid any visible porn, and lay down next to the phone- just in case.
Soon after, the feeling went away. I was left a bit weak, but I felt okay. I chalked it up to- whatever, and walked to the nearby grocery store for granola.
Later in the day, it happened again, but it didn’t last as long, so I let it go.
That following Monday at work, I mentioned it to a few people. They didn’t seem too concerned, so I took this as a cue that it was nothing and moved on. Thank God for that external validation that allowed me to ignore two strokes!
So, here we are again at the day of the “big” one. Wednesday morning, People’s Court, and then the tingling began. Only this time, it never went away. Now a smart man would have immediately called for help, but I did what I’ve always done in time of great strife and crisis- I tried to sleep it off. I spent the whole of Wednesday trying to sleep off a stroke.
Again, I must ask that you agree that I have exhibited stupidity, but don’t hold it against me. I am in dire need of someone to take care of me, ladies!
The next morning I hopped (READ: wobbled and crawled) out of bed, called my mother to tell her I’d had a stroke, limped down the 130 stairs in my apartment, and made my way to the emergency room… by public bus!

I’m either really awesome or really retarded.
Hold your votes until the end.

With the help of the earth’s rotation and a few calm breezes, I was able to swing my nearly dead left leg the three blocks from the bus stop to the emergency room.
Once there, the care immediately kicked into high gear. They strapped me to a fat guy wheelchair, and started taking my blood pressure, taking my blood, and taking pictures of my brain, arteries, and heart.
Soon, the calls and text messages began. I found it really amusing that people would try to call a stroke victim and expect him to answer texts, but I was glad that people cared enough to try.
My Ma and my Old Man arrived soon and sat briefly. The Old Man was tired and still a bit sick- he’d been in the same hospital only a few weeks earlier. I felt really bad that they had to see me this way, especially since I probably could have avoided this through clean living and positive thinking. But who am I, Captain Fantasy? Life has a way of sucking, and sometimes that suck materializes as a busted blood vessel in your brain.
Eventually, I was in my own room, forced to lie nearly flat in bed and connected to an I.V.
So far, everyone at the hospital had been so nice and considerate to me that my mind began to drift into Devil’s Advocate mode. What was their game? What was their angle? What did they have to gain by keeping me alive?
I cannot begin to tell you why these thoughts were occurring to me. That is, besides stupidity.
My blood pressure was extremely high. When I arrived at the ER, it was in walking dead territory. Eventually, it came down, but it remained really high for the duration of my stay at the hospital.
Some guests arrived and were happy to see that I was not a vegetable. I got flowers.
The nurse attached a bracelet to my wrist that labeled me a “Fall Risk”. This meant that I wasn’t supposed to get to the restroom or anything else without help. For the sake of argument, let’s say that I played along.
The results of the tests started to come back, and were showing that my (3rd) stroke was minor… really minor. They couldn’t find any hint of damage or any clue that I couldn’t avoid all of this in the future.
I spent the first night trying to be comfortable in the hospital bed and watching Adult Swim. The Boondocks always pleases.
The next day brought more tests, more calls from well wishers, and I was finally allowed to sit up and walk around a bit.
You think that it would be awesome to lay down all day and watch TV, but it gets boring really quickly. Luckily I only had to do it for two days.
So, here we are. I have to take lots of medicine to keep my blood pressure down; I have to avoid fried foods, and sweets. It took a stroke to finally get me to the hospital and take care of myself. It probably won’t take as extreme a measure in the future. I should regain all of my proper movement over time, without any sort of therapy.
As for my mental well being, well-
I have to learn to stop sweating the small stuff, as the book says. Yes, things suck. Yes, I’ll continue to write about them for your amusement and unfaltering loyalty, but I will no longer brood, or mope, or fume.
I promise that I will not use my mind to kill myself, like a Scanner.
I was given a harsh lesson that could have been a lot harsher, and I am going to take steps not to repeat it. For my efforts, I have to sit home and watch television for two straight weeks. Damn.
And how is it going? Well, this morning I realized that my useless ex-roommate had scratched the Odorama card from my collector’s edition copy of Polyester.
Normally, I’d have blown a gasket and put him on my things to do list, but that was Pre-stroke J’Mza.
The new J’Mza realizes that J’Mza and his health and his art need to be at the top of that list.
As far as the Roommate, well, these things are best served cold, right?