At least you know I'm still alive, in a strict medical sense.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The "Fuck Everything" Utterance Talley of 16-3-10
At least you know I'm still alive, in a strict medical sense.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I Am Legion. But I wish I was Cesar Millan.
So I was busy pretending I was in another world in a stupid video game, and then everybody quit playing. And it was less fun to pretend I was alone in said made-up videogame world, as there's no real books in the in-game library, and my character only wears sunglasses anyway.
Everybody in my legion (group of players) quit, so I was left alone. I am Legion.
But you don't care about that. What you care about (I like to tell myself) is why your beloved protagonist keeps getting so many rabies shots.
It would seem that all five of my followers here are, in fact, stray dogs pretending to be human beings that I know. And them dogs are pissed at what I wrote.
I walked up to this random night club with my laptop about 2.5 weeks ago and was all like, "Hey! I'm from NYC and I'm a DJ and I'm superrrrtrendy and you should give me a gig." And they got all pumped and now I'm friends with a resident DJ, who seems like a pretty cool guy. I went out with him and his friends two Saturdays ago, and it was kinda broish and they listen to a lot of trance (as does everybody it seems, even my dreamfungus) but they also smoke a lot of hash.
God, this is poorly written.
Anyway, I had a pretty good time and actually got drunk with somebody who is not an anime character. They tried to drive me home, but since that would be too great to actually happen, there was a huge fucking iron gate in the way. Apparently at night these gates get shut, and it becomes difficult to drive places.
So, being a 3-minute walk from the flat, I decided to hoof it. I had told my new bros of my previous dog escapades, and as I exited the car and one of them made me promise to call when I get home, I said, "Don't worry about it. The only thing I'm afraid of is the dogs."
Chuckles all around!
Take my eyes, o cruel reality, for a prophet am I! Also, I am Legion.
The dogs. The fucking dogs. First with the barking, then with the growling, and then the surrounding of me.
Yes, that's right. About two blocks from my house, I'm encircled by four or five of the snarling beasts. More heads than Cerberus. This one whitish dog fucking lunges for my leg, but being a complete and utter wuss, I've already taken my first running step and am partially a-sprint.
What I learned in the next minute or so is that a terrified nerd (of the scrawny, rather than fat, variety) moves a LOT faster than some dog whose no-doubt huge testicles were no-doubt getting in the way of him speedily protecting his turf.
He followed me right to my corner and then gave up.
When I got inside I called the bros, who laughed (this wasn't cruel, we were all laughing), and then I checked my leg. Of course, the fucking dog just barely broke the skin, meaning that I just barely needed to get a full battery of rabies injections. Not to mention tetanus and antibiotics. Woo-hoo!
That night I cleaned the wound with antibacterial handsoap.
There was this one episode of the "Dog Whisperer" (TV-series in quotes, no?) where Cesar Millan went to a women's prison. There was a program there where inmates would work with troublesome dogs to try to train them so they could be adopted rather than put down. A meta-metaphor. What I found incredible and ridiculous about this was Millan's logic: "Yeah well, it sucks that I have to go to a prison, but the dogs need me." Not even a thought for his role in potentially improving the lives of the inmates.
So, anyway, Delhi can't be much worse than a prison. CESAR MILLAN, THE DOGS OF DELHI NEED YOU. THERE IS AN EXPAT WHO IS REALLY QUITE ANGRY AND IS GOING TO PUT THEM ALL DOWN (with an elephant mortar!) IF YOU DO NOT COME HERE AND SAVE THEM, RIGHT NOW.
Whew. Hope he heard that.
Let me summarize the situation: I cannot walk home at night because ***DOGS***WILL***FUCKING***EAT***ME.*** I cannot be driven home at night because there are huge fucking iron gates blocking the way. So now that I have friends, I can't go out with them or I'll be starting a new career as a back alley chew-toy.
P.S. I made a pipe out of a tiny little lemon because I don't want to smoke tobacco with my drugs. It's in my fridge now and I am so proud of it because it's so twee and good. Adorbz. This pleasure is necessarily fleeting, however, as the lemon will rot, along with everything else joyous. Such is the legacy of this place. Maybe if it rots into some blue fuzz, though, I can use it to clean my next dog wound.
Everybody in my legion (group of players) quit, so I was left alone. I am Legion.
But you don't care about that. What you care about (I like to tell myself) is why your beloved protagonist keeps getting so many rabies shots.
It would seem that all five of my followers here are, in fact, stray dogs pretending to be human beings that I know. And them dogs are pissed at what I wrote.
I walked up to this random night club with my laptop about 2.5 weeks ago and was all like, "Hey! I'm from NYC and I'm a DJ and I'm superrrrtrendy and you should give me a gig." And they got all pumped and now I'm friends with a resident DJ, who seems like a pretty cool guy. I went out with him and his friends two Saturdays ago, and it was kinda broish and they listen to a lot of trance (as does everybody it seems, even my dreamfungus) but they also smoke a lot of hash.
God, this is poorly written.
Anyway, I had a pretty good time and actually got drunk with somebody who is not an anime character. They tried to drive me home, but since that would be too great to actually happen, there was a huge fucking iron gate in the way. Apparently at night these gates get shut, and it becomes difficult to drive places.
So, being a 3-minute walk from the flat, I decided to hoof it. I had told my new bros of my previous dog escapades, and as I exited the car and one of them made me promise to call when I get home, I said, "Don't worry about it. The only thing I'm afraid of is the dogs."
Chuckles all around!
Take my eyes, o cruel reality, for a prophet am I! Also, I am Legion.
The dogs. The fucking dogs. First with the barking, then with the growling, and then the surrounding of me.
Yes, that's right. About two blocks from my house, I'm encircled by four or five of the snarling beasts. More heads than Cerberus. This one whitish dog fucking lunges for my leg, but being a complete and utter wuss, I've already taken my first running step and am partially a-sprint.
What I learned in the next minute or so is that a terrified nerd (of the scrawny, rather than fat, variety) moves a LOT faster than some dog whose no-doubt huge testicles were no-doubt getting in the way of him speedily protecting his turf.
He followed me right to my corner and then gave up.
When I got inside I called the bros, who laughed (this wasn't cruel, we were all laughing), and then I checked my leg. Of course, the fucking dog just barely broke the skin, meaning that I just barely needed to get a full battery of rabies injections. Not to mention tetanus and antibiotics. Woo-hoo!
That night I cleaned the wound with antibacterial handsoap.
There was this one episode of the "Dog Whisperer" (TV-series in quotes, no?) where Cesar Millan went to a women's prison. There was a program there where inmates would work with troublesome dogs to try to train them so they could be adopted rather than put down. A meta-metaphor. What I found incredible and ridiculous about this was Millan's logic: "Yeah well, it sucks that I have to go to a prison, but the dogs need me." Not even a thought for his role in potentially improving the lives of the inmates.
So, anyway, Delhi can't be much worse than a prison. CESAR MILLAN, THE DOGS OF DELHI NEED YOU. THERE IS AN EXPAT WHO IS REALLY QUITE ANGRY AND IS GOING TO PUT THEM ALL DOWN (with an elephant mortar!) IF YOU DO NOT COME HERE AND SAVE THEM, RIGHT NOW.
Whew. Hope he heard that.
Let me summarize the situation: I cannot walk home at night because ***DOGS***WILL***FUCKING***EAT***ME.*** I cannot be driven home at night because there are huge fucking iron gates blocking the way. So now that I have friends, I can't go out with them or I'll be starting a new career as a back alley chew-toy.
P.S. I made a pipe out of a tiny little lemon because I don't want to smoke tobacco with my drugs. It's in my fridge now and I am so proud of it because it's so twee and good. Adorbz. This pleasure is necessarily fleeting, however, as the lemon will rot, along with everything else joyous. Such is the legacy of this place. Maybe if it rots into some blue fuzz, though, I can use it to clean my next dog wound.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Karma Killa Cam-elion or Something (fuck you, this is a working title)
...however, Max (you know him if you're reading this, most likely) said that when he came here, he spontaneously shit blood for about a week and then was fine. The people he was with said that the blood was all the bad karma leaving him now that he was in India, and were dead serious in saying so.
It took me about a month to get the initial round of bad karma out, (I've been shitting better than I did in the ol' US of A for the last 3 days!) and now I'm back to generating more. I'm so efficient that I kill bugs on the wall while I defecate, just to make sure that bad karma loss doesn't turn me into a boyscout or something.
Remember how I said I was going to burn a stray dog? Of course you do. Well I'm not gonna. Instead I'm going to get better at kicking street urchins.
The problem with dogs is that they're too damn scary. I ran out of bottled water Saturday night at about 1 AM and I'd been drinking (booze) alone, so I was thirsty. Rather naively, I figured there might be a 24 hour store in the local market, where I could buy something other than escherichia coli juice. There wasn't. Instead there was darkness and growling, mangy dogs. During the day they seem placid enough and pretty much just lay around in patches of sunlight, scratching themselves. I've envied them at times. But at night they grow balls, and just the act of walking down the street (in the pitch black--no streetlights) was enough to set off every dog in what sounded like a two-mile radius. The ones far away barked, and the ones I walked by growled.
I made it to the market, glanced around just long enough to confirm that everything was the fuck closed, and sprinted home with motherfucking Cerberus on my ass.
The next day I went to the other market, with the rice-lice store, to buy expat groceries. I may have found a DJ gig there, too, but more on that later. Anyway, I'm taking this auto rickshaw back (they look like this, but dirty/shittier:)
It took me about a month to get the initial round of bad karma out, (I've been shitting better than I did in the ol' US of A for the last 3 days!) and now I'm back to generating more. I'm so efficient that I kill bugs on the wall while I defecate, just to make sure that bad karma loss doesn't turn me into a boyscout or something.
Remember how I said I was going to burn a stray dog? Of course you do. Well I'm not gonna. Instead I'm going to get better at kicking street urchins.
The problem with dogs is that they're too damn scary. I ran out of bottled water Saturday night at about 1 AM and I'd been drinking (booze) alone, so I was thirsty. Rather naively, I figured there might be a 24 hour store in the local market, where I could buy something other than escherichia coli juice. There wasn't. Instead there was darkness and growling, mangy dogs. During the day they seem placid enough and pretty much just lay around in patches of sunlight, scratching themselves. I've envied them at times. But at night they grow balls, and just the act of walking down the street (in the pitch black--no streetlights) was enough to set off every dog in what sounded like a two-mile radius. The ones far away barked, and the ones I walked by growled.
I made it to the market, glanced around just long enough to confirm that everything was the fuck closed, and sprinted home with motherfucking Cerberus on my ass.
The next day I went to the other market, with the rice-lice store, to buy expat groceries. I may have found a DJ gig there, too, but more on that later. Anyway, I'm taking this auto rickshaw back (they look like this, but dirty/shittier:)
and some filthy little kid leans in my ride to beg for money. Everybody who begs here uses the same voice, a sort of froggy Macy-Gray-smoking-George-Clinton's-crack vox where they croak "Helloooooo" or "Pleeeease." With the old ones it makes sense, but when kids try to pull it off it's just ridiculous.
This particular attack was two-pronged. On the left of the sideless vehicle is the ugly dirty kid, straight-up begging, and on the right is the cute little girl trying to sell pity and balloons. So I shake my head at ugly and say "No," but the fucker doesn't go away. I keep shaking my head, and then the little bastard (possibly literally) actually tries to reach into the rickshaw and grab one of my grocery bags. Like he'd even know what to do with that much food!
I kick my leg out and narrowly miss the wannabe thief, who was, to be honest, disappointingly slow. Maybe he didn't eat his Wheaties that morning.
Or ever.
Anyway, a tiny part of me felt awful, but most of me felt weak for being able to do no more than scream "get the fuck out of here" while he continued to stand there uncomprehendingly. I have to admit, I kind of wish I'd landed the kick.
This particular attack was two-pronged. On the left of the sideless vehicle is the ugly dirty kid, straight-up begging, and on the right is the cute little girl trying to sell pity and balloons. So I shake my head at ugly and say "No," but the fucker doesn't go away. I keep shaking my head, and then the little bastard (possibly literally) actually tries to reach into the rickshaw and grab one of my grocery bags. Like he'd even know what to do with that much food!
I kick my leg out and narrowly miss the wannabe thief, who was, to be honest, disappointingly slow. Maybe he didn't eat his Wheaties that morning.
Or ever.
Anyway, a tiny part of me felt awful, but most of me felt weak for being able to do no more than scream "get the fuck out of here" while he continued to stand there uncomprehendingly. I have to admit, I kind of wish I'd landed the kick.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
It's ELECTRIC!
"Electricity, e-lec-tricity!" ~Schoolhouse Rock
"More power to the people! ...More pussy to the power!" ~Parliament
This morning wasn't great for electricity. I turned on my light switch and -POP!- both bulbs blew out, and then all the power in my flat was no more.
This was incredibly disorienting because I'd just woken up from a hallucinogenic nightmare about evil, sentient, shape-shifting fungus. There was a new NYC underground nightclub trend where people would go to this fungus den and, well, just sort of run around in a blacklit haunted house with trance music and crazy morphing mushroom scenery. I specifically remember one of the more self-reflexive rooms with an NES Mario theme, where you could hop around on goombas, again, to trance music. Anyway, I discovered the evil secret of the club, which was that the club was secretly evil, and so I was being pursued by two of the fungi. These particular fungi decided to disguise themselves as impossibly tall midwestern tourists, complete with flannel farmer shirts, jean overalls, and fanny packs (filled with, I suspected, pure soporific evil). There was also a good fungus, trying to escape and spread the horrible truth, who appeared as a helpless little girl.
I start having dreams like this when I haven't done drugs in a while. I'm not joking.
So I woke up right as the fungi had chased me to my mom's apartment and -POP!- no power. My head was spinning, and I couldn't turn on the boiler to take a warmish shower. I'm supposed to have a backup generator for the lights, but it takes Wednesdays off.
When the power is on, it does weird things. About 75% of the time, touching my laptop feels like licking a 9v battery. About 5% of the time the charge coming out of it through the plastic casing is strong enough so that my finger twitches if I try typing.
This girl I was seeing a while back told me she was into electricity sex. (To be fair, she was into everything.) She promised me that with the right hookup, my prostate could be zapped directly into orgasm. Sounds OK to me. The future is now!
I was bored, and was wondering if my macbook is prostate-compatible. (Backwards compatibility! ehhhhhhh-heh-heh-huff-huff-wheeze...) Or maybe if I just slap my penis on the thing, it'd feel good, or at least funky and new. But what if there was a power surge right then?!
!!!
Caution got the best of me, and don't worry, the laptop is still clean enough for other people to use.
"More power to the people! ...More pussy to the power!" ~Parliament
This morning wasn't great for electricity. I turned on my light switch and -POP!- both bulbs blew out, and then all the power in my flat was no more.
This was incredibly disorienting because I'd just woken up from a hallucinogenic nightmare about evil, sentient, shape-shifting fungus. There was a new NYC underground nightclub trend where people would go to this fungus den and, well, just sort of run around in a blacklit haunted house with trance music and crazy morphing mushroom scenery. I specifically remember one of the more self-reflexive rooms with an NES Mario theme, where you could hop around on goombas, again, to trance music. Anyway, I discovered the evil secret of the club, which was that the club was secretly evil, and so I was being pursued by two of the fungi. These particular fungi decided to disguise themselves as impossibly tall midwestern tourists, complete with flannel farmer shirts, jean overalls, and fanny packs (filled with, I suspected, pure soporific evil). There was also a good fungus, trying to escape and spread the horrible truth, who appeared as a helpless little girl.
I start having dreams like this when I haven't done drugs in a while. I'm not joking.
So I woke up right as the fungi had chased me to my mom's apartment and -POP!- no power. My head was spinning, and I couldn't turn on the boiler to take a warmish shower. I'm supposed to have a backup generator for the lights, but it takes Wednesdays off.
When the power is on, it does weird things. About 75% of the time, touching my laptop feels like licking a 9v battery. About 5% of the time the charge coming out of it through the plastic casing is strong enough so that my finger twitches if I try typing.
This girl I was seeing a while back told me she was into electricity sex. (To be fair, she was into everything.) She promised me that with the right hookup, my prostate could be zapped directly into orgasm. Sounds OK to me. The future is now!
I was bored, and was wondering if my macbook is prostate-compatible. (Backwards compatibility! ehhhhhhh-heh-heh-huff-huff-wheeze...) Or maybe if I just slap my penis on the thing, it'd feel good, or at least funky and new. But what if there was a power surge right then?!
!!!
Caution got the best of me, and don't worry, the laptop is still clean enough for other people to use.
Friday, February 12, 2010
On the good news front...
...I got accepted to a law school I want to attend last night. My housing will be much cheaper than in Delhi.
So I'm going to get rich and buy the family of the Airtel engineer to reenact several scenes from The Aristocrats, with him in attendance.
So I'm going to get rich and buy the family of the Airtel engineer to reenact several scenes from The Aristocrats, with him in attendance.
I have attained nirvana. For serious.
So, my first hotel gave me awful shits. I ate some vegetable-and -dysentery biryani and was, the next afternoon, doubled up with mucus-like liquid running too slowly out my asshole. I managed to stay clean a week before "the wobbles" hit me, so I guess that's pretty good. For the record: you don't wobble. You shit fluid.
I spent about two weeks looking for what is quite limeily called a "flat" to discover that, as a white guy who enjoys indoor showering and doesn't care for a two hour commute to work, I need to pay almost New York (Manhattan, oh, to be Williamsburg-range!) prices.
But that's cool because my place is huge and I've got my own stove and washing machine and bed, right?
Well the bed smells like stale urine. The washing machine floods the kitchen. The stove, which I was told was malfunctioning and would soon be "automatic," actually involves turning on the gas and lighting with matches. My dad assured me this was totally OK because some people still had stoves like that when he was a kid. When he was a kid in the 1950s. The fucking 1950s. Right here, 60 years later, for your face-exploding pleasure, you goddamn shitty communist.
Then I managed to produce a solid turd. It didn't flush. I tried killing it an hour later. It didn't flush. I called a guy. He came and got it to flush. I took another shit a day later--smaller than the first, less solid. Was less proud of it. It still didn't flush. Just sat there, turning its wee (pun?) aquarium rusty. I think this may have made the water cleaner.
How hard is it to get a rifle in India? Didn't Orwell have one to shoot elephants? But was he in India in that story? I forget high school. But I want an elephant rifle. Or an elephant mortar. I want to destroy the spasmodic car alarm that activates about once per hour outside my window, obnoxiously loud, from 11 PM to 7 AM, "pee-poo-pee-poo-pee-poo-peep!" It goes off slightly more frequently than the power does. Also, I'm gonna fuck up the Airtel engineer who I sent running from my "flat" today.
Oh, him? Well you see, I'd been waiting two weeks for internet to arrive (I realize it takes a while to travel back in time to the '50s, what with Deloreans being hard to come by in Asia and Delhi traffic) and when I finally get the engineer to the flat, I'm informed that there is a "technical problem."
The engineer, you should know, is the third stage of India Internetting. First, you get a sales rep to show up--this is easy--people like to take your money. Then you get a guy to install wires. He takes about a day, and will arrive three hours late. You tip him, cause you tip everybody for everything when you're a $ skin color person.
Then, a week later, they send me this engineer. With the technical problem. So I sez, calmly, vas dis aboutta technical problem? Guy #3 sez iz technical, see. So I tell him I'm not stupid, and ask, hey, Guy #3 what's the problem? He evades, so I calmly inform Guy #3 that if he doesn't figure out the problem I'm going to rip his heart out with my teeth, and calmly remind him that us 'Murkins love red meat. He answers a phone call (was it real?) and uses it as an excuse to casually stroll out of the apartment, get on his motorcycle, and retreat.
I'm not kidding. The Airtel engineer ran the fuck away. Where is my elephant mortar?
It's hard to get red meat here that doesn't come from humans (three cheers for medical tourism!), and when I do, it gives me the shits.
So I decided to cook myself (stove permitting) a vegetarian feast--spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, red pepper, and fake Kraft (R) Parmezzan Cheeez (TM). Expat delicacy. And the garlic has gone rotten since I bought it two days earlier. And one package of spaghetti is partially open, so maybe it's not safe.
But what's this under the spaghetti? Lice?! I bought two bags of "Super-Premium Basmati Rice", one of which I didn't notice had already been opened and stapled shut again. I'm not used to looking for these things, especially in the fancy expat store where you spend 200 bucks for Super-Premium rice n' lice. The bugs were (and mostly still are) all over the cabinet, so everything not in a very air-tight can was thrown out. So no pasta, even sans garlic. Butter and Cheeez (TM) would have been nice on non-infested pasta--but hey! The butter is frozen. Along with everything else in my 'fridge, which has settings only for tepid and The Soul of Winnipeg. I'm working on putting my own personal hole in the ozone. Can you eat eggs that have been frozen and defrosted? Dinner tonight will be Pringles and liquor again.
One of the lice (they're not really lice, but sooooo creepy) had the audacity to crawl onto a sock of mine, so I burned it to death with a lighter. This took longer than I expected and was immensely satisfying. This city is turning me into a sadistic child. I think I'll move on to stray dogs next. To be more adult.
My neighbors probably know me as the white guy who likes to fuck. By this I mean yell "fuck!" at everything that betrays my expectations. The closest I came to fucking was flirting with a cute Israeli girl with acne scars on a flight back from Chennai. They sat the Jews next to each other. At one point I passed the "Swastika Hotel" but don't worry, it doesn't mean that here. Anyway, I talked to her for two hours and didn't have the courage to ask her out after, even though she was in town for only a few days and seemed both interested and fun.
Yeah I've done some good stuff too but it's all work-related and I'll brag on facebook, in the light of day. Can't upload pictures because I have no bandwidth (I'm using a carrier-pigeon-golem that I molded out of my unflushable feces to bring you this here tour de force) but if I could, I'd show you the burnt rice louse.
It's 9:30 on a Friday night and I don't know anybody my age who isn't married (with children, too) or religiously opposed to alcohol. Realistically, I haven't met anybody cool because I'm pissed off, anemic, spoiled, and cowardly. At least I'm not (very) ugly. I saw a girl today, maybe 18 years old, with a fully shaveable beard.
That made me feel better about things.
I spent about two weeks looking for what is quite limeily called a "flat" to discover that, as a white guy who enjoys indoor showering and doesn't care for a two hour commute to work, I need to pay almost New York (Manhattan, oh, to be Williamsburg-range!) prices.
But that's cool because my place is huge and I've got my own stove and washing machine and bed, right?
Well the bed smells like stale urine. The washing machine floods the kitchen. The stove, which I was told was malfunctioning and would soon be "automatic," actually involves turning on the gas and lighting with matches. My dad assured me this was totally OK because some people still had stoves like that when he was a kid. When he was a kid in the 1950s. The fucking 1950s. Right here, 60 years later, for your face-exploding pleasure, you goddamn shitty communist.
Then I managed to produce a solid turd. It didn't flush. I tried killing it an hour later. It didn't flush. I called a guy. He came and got it to flush. I took another shit a day later--smaller than the first, less solid. Was less proud of it. It still didn't flush. Just sat there, turning its wee (pun?) aquarium rusty. I think this may have made the water cleaner.
How hard is it to get a rifle in India? Didn't Orwell have one to shoot elephants? But was he in India in that story? I forget high school. But I want an elephant rifle. Or an elephant mortar. I want to destroy the spasmodic car alarm that activates about once per hour outside my window, obnoxiously loud, from 11 PM to 7 AM, "pee-poo-pee-poo-pee-poo-peep!" It goes off slightly more frequently than the power does. Also, I'm gonna fuck up the Airtel engineer who I sent running from my "flat" today.
Oh, him? Well you see, I'd been waiting two weeks for internet to arrive (I realize it takes a while to travel back in time to the '50s, what with Deloreans being hard to come by in Asia and Delhi traffic) and when I finally get the engineer to the flat, I'm informed that there is a "technical problem."
The engineer, you should know, is the third stage of India Internetting. First, you get a sales rep to show up--this is easy--people like to take your money. Then you get a guy to install wires. He takes about a day, and will arrive three hours late. You tip him, cause you tip everybody for everything when you're a $ skin color person.
Then, a week later, they send me this engineer. With the technical problem. So I sez, calmly, vas dis aboutta technical problem? Guy #3 sez iz technical, see. So I tell him I'm not stupid, and ask, hey, Guy #3 what's the problem? He evades, so I calmly inform Guy #3 that if he doesn't figure out the problem I'm going to rip his heart out with my teeth, and calmly remind him that us 'Murkins love red meat. He answers a phone call (was it real?) and uses it as an excuse to casually stroll out of the apartment, get on his motorcycle, and retreat.
I'm not kidding. The Airtel engineer ran the fuck away. Where is my elephant mortar?
It's hard to get red meat here that doesn't come from humans (three cheers for medical tourism!), and when I do, it gives me the shits.
So I decided to cook myself (stove permitting) a vegetarian feast--spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, red pepper, and fake Kraft (R) Parmezzan Cheeez (TM). Expat delicacy. And the garlic has gone rotten since I bought it two days earlier. And one package of spaghetti is partially open, so maybe it's not safe.
But what's this under the spaghetti? Lice?! I bought two bags of "Super-Premium Basmati Rice", one of which I didn't notice had already been opened and stapled shut again. I'm not used to looking for these things, especially in the fancy expat store where you spend 200 bucks for Super-Premium rice n' lice. The bugs were (and mostly still are) all over the cabinet, so everything not in a very air-tight can was thrown out. So no pasta, even sans garlic. Butter and Cheeez (TM) would have been nice on non-infested pasta--but hey! The butter is frozen. Along with everything else in my 'fridge, which has settings only for tepid and The Soul of Winnipeg. I'm working on putting my own personal hole in the ozone. Can you eat eggs that have been frozen and defrosted? Dinner tonight will be Pringles and liquor again.
One of the lice (they're not really lice, but sooooo creepy) had the audacity to crawl onto a sock of mine, so I burned it to death with a lighter. This took longer than I expected and was immensely satisfying. This city is turning me into a sadistic child. I think I'll move on to stray dogs next. To be more adult.
My neighbors probably know me as the white guy who likes to fuck. By this I mean yell "fuck!" at everything that betrays my expectations. The closest I came to fucking was flirting with a cute Israeli girl with acne scars on a flight back from Chennai. They sat the Jews next to each other. At one point I passed the "Swastika Hotel" but don't worry, it doesn't mean that here. Anyway, I talked to her for two hours and didn't have the courage to ask her out after, even though she was in town for only a few days and seemed both interested and fun.
Yeah I've done some good stuff too but it's all work-related and I'll brag on facebook, in the light of day. Can't upload pictures because I have no bandwidth (I'm using a carrier-pigeon-golem that I molded out of my unflushable feces to bring you this here tour de force) but if I could, I'd show you the burnt rice louse.
It's 9:30 on a Friday night and I don't know anybody my age who isn't married (with children, too) or religiously opposed to alcohol. Realistically, I haven't met anybody cool because I'm pissed off, anemic, spoiled, and cowardly. At least I'm not (very) ugly. I saw a girl today, maybe 18 years old, with a fully shaveable beard.
That made me feel better about things.
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