Ambien

Telling someone you haven’t slept in two weeks is a lot like telling someone sitting beside you in a car with the radio on that if you hear this goddamn Flo Rida song one more time you’ll blow your brains out. In most cases your companion will make some sort of guffawing noise and say something casually dismissive along the lines of, “I know, right?”, or “Ha! No kidding”. This person does not take you seriously because people typically do not blow their brains out because inadvertently “Right Round” is playing out the window of asshole’s jeep – just like people probably succumb to the unconscious forces of sleep within the span of two weeks. When you tell someone something like, “I haven’t slept in two weeks”, a note of doubt erupts from the pit of their stomach, traveling all the way up the esophagus and past the lips as a chortle.
I didn’t sleep for two weeks.

I had a mutiny on my hands when it came to my body. I tried everything conventional and then some in order to quell the uprising, abate the forces keeping me awake in my bed at night with my eyes closed. First of all, if you actually experience insomnia, anything over the counter is a joke. I initially took Melatonin as a natural way to make my body drowsy – no dice. I raised the stakes and purchased Advil PM, took well more than the recommended dosage despite the appeals from my liver – nothing. Things got so desperate I had to call upon my old girlfriend of a sleeping aid, alcohol – she didn’t put out. The last morning before I called the doctor I honestly felt as if I’d been tweaking on crystal meth, and probably looked it showing up all red eyed and disgruntled to all my classes.

Ambien is a godsend. It’s nearly midnight as I write this and although I’m not even remotely tired I have all the faith in the world that when I pop one of my beautiful 10 mg’s of Zolpidem I will giggle after about thirty minutes, inexplicably think my bed looks vaguely familiar to FernGully when I drape the comforter over my head, and immediately black the fuck out until the sun bleeds through the vertical slit of my drapes. Also I may wake up in the middle of the night, totally unaware of what is happening, and open the front door of my house before returning to bed. Apparently that has been happening and is being attributed to my sedation. I’m somewhat of a disbeliever, but the roommates insist.

According to the pamphlet that came with my 30 count bottle the most common blackout behavior under the effects of Ambien are as follows:
- Driving a car
- Making food
- Sleep walking
- Having sex

I have made it a habit of hiding my keys every single night.
In other news I am going to get shit faced this Friday and literally build a computer with one of good friends, one Mathew George Montgomery. Being able to do something so stupid and opposite from I suppose the average ASU student’s idea of a good time makes me happy that despite, like, all of my friends moving halfway across the country, a few of the good ones remained. The longer this paragraph becomes the more I feel like it’s becoming a textual desire to enter a three month committed relationship with Mat. Straight out of LFO’s ‘Summer Girls’.

In closing, I want to go to Coachella badly so I will. I also wish I had a pizza.

Chlamydia

I am going to the doctor because it burns when I pee.

It is a begrudging effort because it opens me up to all kinds of speculation. I ultimately accept that I am human and call to make the appointment. As I call what I believe to be the physician I regularly visit I make a conscious decision to adopt the tone of a man who is casual and upbeat about penile impairment that inadvertently slips into the tone of a desperate and naïve young boy who really ought to make more informed decisions about where he puts his genitalia. A woman answers the phone.

“Ahwatukee Family Physicians. This is Megan.”

“Yes, hi. I’m calling to schedule an appointment.”

“Just a second. Let me put you on hold.”

Megan affords me the opportunity to rethink my strategy. When asked in regards to my appointment, do I simply blurt out, ‘My dick hurts?’, or should I be coy? Should I say something to the effect of, ‘Something is wrong … you know, Megan. Down there.’ She joins me on the line quicker than I anticipate.

“Thank you for holding. And what are you setting this appointment up for?”

Suddenly I am aware that all of my roommates are home. I have not told them of my terrible affliction. Suddenly the walls are paper – the word ‘penis’ has potential to burn through the house like a towering inferno. Mark is in his room and I can hear his voice audibly through the vent in the wall that separates our living quarters.

“Yes, I uh … I’m calling in regards to a possible … bladder infection.”

The last two words are quiet, quieter than I expected or intended.

“I’m sorry?”

“A POSSIBLE BLADDER INFECTION.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

When I arrive to the doctors I am relieved to find it is not the one I normally visit. The normal one I visit I awkwardly used to be friends with his son Brian in elementary school and attended his birthday party. For this particular event we went to what I can only believe to be a carnival, where each birthday attendant was allotted a small amount of money [by the aforementioned doctor] for games that yielded prizes, of which, was a stuffed animal I had personally won. Later during the slumber aspect of the party, I, for whatever it was that compels children to be destructive, decapitated my stuffed animal. Perhaps to prove a point. Perhaps merely to say, ‘Hey. I’m too big for this.’ Whatever the reason, Brian tattled on me. In the early hours of the morning I was scolded by his father. Brian and I were no longer friends after that night. The experience was so great my mother decided to utilize his stern father’s medical abilities for the entire family. Now every time I have an infection I must have an obligatory conversation about the things Brian is up to these days that I don’t care about before I can be healthy. Except today. It is a lady doctor, cooing my innate male with an embarrassing penis problem instincts out of its dreary cave.

I dress up my symptoms to sound mysterious. I make it sound like a medical phenomenon exclusive to me. The doctor is not impressed. She listens to me momentarily, listens to my breathing, and then tells me I probably have Chlamydia. She essentially believes this because typically any male in their 20’s who is sexually active who speaks of things within this ballpark have Chlamydia. As much alternative music, skinny jeans, hoodies as I invested in all throughout my college career in an effort to distance myself from the other dudes, I am reminded I am painfully average. She writes me a prescription for a powerful antibiotic. Before leaving she hands me a little cup and instructs me to pee in it and hand it to an old man in a little room on my way out. I do this and feel very sorry for the old man when he clasps the warm container of my urine in his hand because I indirectly feel as though I have pissed on him.

I drive to the pharmacy immediately. I have to wait for the pharmacists to fill my prescription so I grab a bite to eat while I mull over what is really plaguing my junk. I develop many theories. When I return to collect my meds the woman at the counter asks me if I’d like instructions from the pharmacist. I politely shrug. The pharmacist approaches me and grabs the bottle in front of me, reads the label, and immediately passes sweeping judgment over me. “You’re gonna want to take this, immediately,” she says glaring down at me. These are the instructions. With them, many implied instructions are given as well.

A few days later I am at work when I receive a phone call. I don’t recognize the number but I answer it. The woman on the line informs me she has the results of my urine test, screened for Chlamydia. She mumbles the result and I ask her to repeat it. “Negative,” she says, more audibly.

Hopefully next time when I’ve potentially contracted AIDS it’s also amusing.

More wisdom from Jordan

More status updates ...

- 602-377-XXXX does anybody reckognize that phone number someone called me onit?

- LMFAO!!!!!!!!!!! AHAHHAAHAAHAHAHAhahaha god dammit butters what did i tell you about shooting guys in the dick ughhh that is not cool lmfaoooo o good the indiana jones rape epsidoe is by the best in season twelve lmao o dear god im crying with laughter ahahaa

- man i just watched the economy southpark episode it makes so much sense why the fuck arent they doing just that wipe out everyones debt and the economy can pickup again da fuuuuuuuuuuck lol

- da fuuuuuuck lmao o god i love south park just watched the pirate episode great haha

- playin mario party on the wii with the roomate its my day off bitches hit it up if u wanna come chill 480-703-XXXX

- the library is awesome i got ten cds for freeeeee and ima get ten more tomorow my collection is going to be digustingly rich with music

- sometimes i just wish anarchy would insue and engulf the entire world either that or everyone in the world turned into a zombie that way i could own the world to myself and shoot everyone i dont like lol

- dam i keep having dreams of my x and her family its fucking wierd and outa nowhere wierd

Jordan later replies to his own update with the following ...

hasnt she torchered me enough dam now i gotta see her in my dreams thassum fucked up shit

- man i cant wait till i start spinnin im gonna killllll the shit for real man u dont even know i cant wait to unleash my talent i just need the tools and its fucking over your friends with a future superstar a legend in the making im gonna destroy th...is music industry and build it back from the ground up

- off to do the arens and visit my homie hit me up 480-703-XXXX

- yay get to visit my homie in the pen today miss her soooo much wooooafter that aint doin shit hit me up if u wanna kick it 480-703-XXXX *in case you missed his phone number

- fuckin weak dude i sat at that god dam jail visitor room for three hours and i didnt get to see her fucking bullshit im gonna try again wensday horse shit

You know I spoil you guys, right? Just because I love you, I'm including a wall-to-wall between Jordan and a girl he is scheming on - a sad situation that is apparently going nowhere. The comments appear in chronological order.

Jordan:

yo kendra wad up its been a while what u been up to?

Kendra:

ha ha good times...

Jordan:

indeed so how ya been whats new man and when do i get to chill with u again? haha

Kendra:

ive been good just really busy with school and work. im down to grab a drink but maybe sometime next week....this week has already worn me out. hope all is well with you.

Jordan:

right on dude sounds good ill hit u up on here next week man glad to hear ur hangin in there definitly good to hear from ya man

Jordan, again:

dude kendra have u seen jennifers body? proly not but u should it was surprisingly good and u really look like the main character needy is her name in it and her real name is Amanda Seyfried check it out dude haha

Jordan, again:

and when u avaiable to kick it dude this weekend lookin at all good?

Jordan, once again:

kendra ima keep buggin u till we chill lol i miss you dude set it up and get it over with lol im free today if ya wanna grab lunch or a movie or somthin my treat ill even get ya homie hit me up man 480-703-XXXX

Kendra:

sorry man can't today. worked all weekend so today is the only day i have to get all my homework done as well as laundry and groceries....blah blah blah. ill hit you up soon. sorry....just crazy busy with school and work and interning. wish i wasn't.

Jordan:

wurd dude wurd

Jordan:

kendraaaaaaaa hows tomorow lookin for u dude haha

Jordan:

sunday that is

Kendra, mercifully:

sorry man i was in show low all weekend.

Jordan:

gotcha

Hey. Look at this kid I hate.

So a real update is in order -- I've got plenty to tell you about the clap that I didn't have/was treated for. In the mean time, YOU NEED TO READ THIS.

So this stupid piece of shit loser from high school friend requested me on Facebook awhile ago. When he added me I was surprised because I thought he was aware of how much I hated him. Evidently not. His status updates have pissed me off so bad I nearly deleted him, which would have been a shame. He is so horrible that everyone should benefit from his stupidity. So, I present to you his status updates in their original form. Enjoy. Perhaps this will be a recurring theme.

Updates appear in chronological order.

Jordan says:

o man 500 days of summer was fucking depressing as shit that movie just pissed me off haha

Jordan says:

wow i went to sleep at 11 this morning and just woke up now haha id proly still be sleepin if i didnt have hw i love sleep its the best

*posted at 8:45 pm

Jordan says:

why is terry reid so dam good seriusly sooo chilll soooo soothing soooooo silk i feel like im flying everytime i listen to seed of memory

Jordan says:

wow surrogets was a good ass movie dude its so true if we were given that technology we all would just sit at home and turn into robots good movie good message good shit man

Jordan says:

dam i didnt realize how many hernandeze'z there were on face book jeese

Jordan says:

lol it just occured to me oooo man lol why are boobs sooo freakin awsome seriusly i must thank god for creating such a lovely gift to us men i mean seriusly u can suckem play with em humpem and man o man are they fun as hell to look at

Jordan says:

hahahahahhahaha and motorboat and cudddle and squeeze lol ooo boobs hahaahaha men thank your ladies right now for sprouting such funbags and thank them again for letting u have soo much fun with them we love you boobs haha

Dude is unfucking believable. The best part is on my news feed a lot of this shit appears one after the other. I'll keep you posted on any further words of wisdom. In the mean time here is a picture of the american badass.

Dogs

I wake up sometime around noon with one item on my agenda for the day which is to be drunk by early evening. I soon remember telling Audrey and Heather the day before that we'll take a trip to the Arizona Humane Society with all intensive purposes to adopt a dog. As it turns out being drunk quickly has to fit in around another item on the agenda after all. I have a generous portion of what I have dubbed a community box of Captain Crunch that belongs to one of my roommates and I'm too looking forward to breakfast to care if I'm wrong. It is delicious.

Audrey ends up driving to the shelter after she gets out of work. Before we get on the freeway a woman is standing by the road with a sign that reads, 'FREE BABY TURTLES'. We consider this alternative momentarily.

Our trip takes us through central Phoenix. The scenery outside the passenger's seat window makes me feel both gallant, in respect to delivering an animal out of such a miserable area, as well as immediately turning the car around, in respect to never coming back to such a miserable area. But pretty soon we arrive at the shelter and once inside it isn't nearly as bad as I exaggerated. Unlike the pound closer to my house the animals here appear to be taken care of by people that seem to enjoy what they're doing.

We walk through several kennels where the dogs are housed. No dogs particularly stick out and it soon dawns on me I don't entirely know what I'm doing here. A few days of processing the news that adopting a dog was allowed, if not encouraged, it somehow evolved into a how-hum feeling that I should just go ahead and do it.

This how-hum feeling is compelling enough to at least request an 'interview' with a 7-year-old German Shepard/Husky mix. I become drawn to him through sympathy because behind his steel cage I plainly see he was fitted with a traditional blue bandana around the neck. He looks too wise not to be considering how stupid he looks and I empathize. I suppose the equivalent of this situation would be putting someone in jail and dressing them up like an asshole.

A man who works at the shelter who lacked any hair apart from a horseshoe around the back and sides of his head coerces Stanley into a larger confined area. He mutters something to himself about needing treats and leaves us alone with the dog. Stanley is less than impressed with being in a cage with three humans, Audrey, Heather, and myself; his nonchalant attitude suggesting he doesn't give a shit because this happens everyday. He sulks about the edges of the pen until the balding man returns with a couple treats in his clenched fist. "Actually, Stanley can sit," the balding man says. He holds out a treat for Stanley and pulls it away as he meets up to grab it, while simultaneously the bald man instructs Stanley to sit first. This action is repeated a few times until Stanley does ultimately oblige. The three of us observe the balding man baby talk Stanley for an unbearable amount of time. Finally I tell the man we'll consider Stanley so we can leave.

I continue walking around the shelter talking myself into adopting something. We come upon a 5-month-old lab named Barkley who I am instantly endeared to because he shares the name with Suns' great, Sir Charles Barkley. I regrettably ask the bald man one more time for an 'interview'. This time he brings us into a smaller room with just a chair and a couple dog toys strewn about the floor. Quite the opposite of Stanley, Barkley immediately loses his shit being around so many people at once. The balding man gives an obligatory speech on how puppies are so different from older dogs and need a lot of love. As the speech ends, the balding man transitions into a grave and quiet uttering of, "He just loves to play". As if to solidify this account of Barkley, the balding man stoops to the floor in herky-jerky fashion, laying face down on the concrete as Barkley aggressively nips around his face. The situation quickly divulges into quietly witnessing this scrappy 40-something year-old man lay in the fetal position against concrete while covering his face and giggling as Barkley quite literally bites his head. This too is allowed to go on for an uncomfortable period of time in complete silence.

Noticeably absent from the car on the ride back is any Stanley, Barkley, or otherwise. I spend the remainder of the 30-some minute ride contemplating whether or not wasting my money on an iPhone or bullshit tattoo is worth more than adopting a dog from central Phoenix. I'm still on the fence.

Waking up to Walt

This morning I woke up to the doorbell ringing in excess.

Adopting my former mentality from living with my parents, by default, answering a door being rung or knocked upon is not my responsibility. I can’t really explain the logic you have when you’re half asleep, but it’s different from being awake logic. The half of me inflicted with exhaustion won out against the quarter of me that felt like being a good citizen. Making matters worse was I knew Walt, the odd job working ex-crack addict, was lurking outside the door waiting to repair something that I wouldn’t notice was fixed so I’d be compelled to ask, “What the hell was Walt fixing today?”, and when I learned what it was I would follow up with, “Oh.” I vaguely recall a hypothetical situation playing in my mind of him fuming outside the door and reprimanding me for not answering the door, further solidifying my stance on not answering the door.

I eventually woke up to a knock on my bedroom door, a door being knocked upon much harder to play oblivious to. It was Walt. He said, “You ready for a ceiling fan?”.

I’ve been in this house for two weeks now, but the unassembled ceiling fan sitting in the room I live in has been here longer. I got quite used to seeing that box on the bedroom floor day to day, to the point I disregarded it ever being assembled. It would be hard to look at because I imagined how much cooler my room might be with it adorned to the ceiling. For his final act, Walt also fixed the cross bar in my closet.

His closing remark to me as he left the house today: “You sure guys live here?”, in reference to the generally agreed upon perception that our house is pretty clean. I think it was sort of Walt’s way of telling me, ‘I just built a fan and fixed a closet for you, fucking faggot. Whatchu goin’ do?’.
I responded by despondently brushing my teeth in the bathroom, discovering Walt had assembled the bathroom mirror that’s been sitting unassembled in the bathroom since I got here.

Academic Probation

I’m only allowed to take up to nine credit hours this semester because I never learned how to apply myself in school.

Specifically, I missed the withdrawal deadline for two classes I was taking the previous semester, a deadline which unmercifully saw my GPA walking to its car in a poorly lit parking lot too late during the night, proceeded to stalk away in the shadows, ultimately sensing no speculation in the vicinity during an otherwise opportune moment and rushed up, grabbed it with vehemence from behind, and violently fucked it in the ass. My GPA was the kind that didn’t even have the presence of mind to carry mace around ASU so when you hear about it being raped, part of you saw it coming and just hoped the girls down the hall learned a stern lesson from it.

I am enrolled in an independent film class, a reflective essay writing class in the spirit of Klosterman, and a class that I can’t pronounce with a former professor I had & loathed. This last class I’m enrolled in because a thirty something English advisor I had a mandated meeting with as part of my probation said I might be interested in it. I fell halfway in love with said thirty something English advisor so I would have agreed to any of her demands in that moment. She liked Dave Mathhews Band a lot, but I forgave her.

I live in a house that is currently being ‘flipped’ with a dude I barely know but had a connection with through his cousin whom I roomed with freshmen year that I only know pretty well. The house, rooted in an historic neighborhood in the belly of the Mesa beast, makes me wish ever more I had a camera to document it all. Monday through Friday an independent contractor/ex-crack addict comes to perform odd jobs around the house. His name is Walt. I have only glimpsed him about two or three times. The only thing I really know about him is that he has several characters that are level 80 in World of Warcraft. I have an irrational fear that if I look him directly in the eyes my body will turn to stone or I’ll have a conversation with him.