That one time I got punched in the face by a bird in Mexico

Mexico is a place, a place that I had never been to until recently.  And by that I mean that I went on a cruise there and I really thought there would be more to tell you about that but there isn't.  There IS, however, a little to tell you because I was attacked by rabid birds.

I was just strutting down the market-place in Ensenada, buying such trinkets as seashell earrings and cheap Mexican cocaine, when WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT, there was a churro stand!  And the churro guy was like, "Here, have a free sample of a churro!" and I was like "May I kiss you passionately, old Mexican churro man?" 

I love churros.  Churros are the only Mexican food that I love.  They're like little fried tubes of joy.  And cinnamon sugar, which is equivalent. My mom sometimes makes churros and I remember why I love my mom.  Not that I wouldn't love my mom if she didn't make me churros, it would just be significantly harder and also I might call her by her first name.

What?

Churro man handed me my free sample of Mexican magic and I, exuding the joy of a woman with a fresh churro and veins full of cocaine, bit into it immediately.  Unfortunately, when an object has pulled from a vat of bubbling oil moments before you place it in your mouth, it is still scalding hot.  I was like "MOTHER OF SWEAR WORD" and then held the churro out so that the Ensenada wind might cool it slightly. 

I continued to walk down the road of the ocean-side market, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air when, all of a sudden, I saw birds!  Look at 'em, they're everywhere!  They're so cuuuute!  And then I continued walking and didn't think about them again. 

Until, not two seconds later, I felt something slam into my face with the force of a small missile.  I felt seagull feet tangling in my hair and saw, to my horror, a snapping beak lunging at my churro, over and over.  And I wish I had been like, "NOT MY CHURRO.  YOU'RE GOING DOWN BIRD.  PREPARE YOURSELF" and then popped a homie in the face, but instead I was more like, "eeeuuuughghhghgGGGHHHEIEEIEIE!!!  MOMMMMM!!!!  HELP MEEEEEEE!!!"  And the evil bird just kept punching me in the face until it snapped up my churro and flew off. 

Those Mexican seagulls aren't afraid of anything.  I hope the churro burned it's tongue on the way down and I hope that every stolen bit of food tasted like rubber for weeks and I hope that that bird never gets married and dies alone.

And so it begins...

Did you know that Utah is freezing?  Freezing enough that I would seriously consider stealing a homeless person's only blanket if I thought it would do any good?  Freezing enough that if you wait too long between blinking, your eye lubrication quickly turns into ice?  SO COLD that the only words I can get out through my chattering teeth are "OHMYGOSH WHY WHY WHY I HATE THIS NO WHY"?  Point is, I don't like it.  Other point is, I'm pretty good at exaggeration.

Well today was one of those probably-colder-than-the-Arctic kind of days.  Luckily for me, I had a crucial test that I had to take for Biology (or as I like to call it, "Bio-dumb-ology." I never said I was clever) and parking at BYU is God's way of reminding me that those stumps of flesh attached to my butt are legs and are, in fact, capable of mobility.  So there I was, making the long and freezing trek back to my car from the testing center when I began to wonder why it was so dark.  I looked up at the sky.  It was filled with menacingly fluffy clouds.  Naturally I gave it a warning look, a look that said "You'd better just STAY clouds.  I don't want any precipitation out of you."

One miserably freezing walk later, I was finally, finally, FINALLY about to open my car door when I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING, a tiny, delicate, beautiful snowflake landed on my sleeve, pristine and perfect.  I blinked once and then immediately squished it in horror.  Waves of disgust rolled through me as I looked around and realized that. it. was. snowing.  It was very light snow, the kind that you might just mistake for a giant with dandruff scratching his head only you know, giants aren't real.  Probably.  I looked up at the sky and I was MAD.

"No.  NO.  DID YOU HEAR ME I SAID NO.  SERIOUSLY, STOP.  I HATE YOU, YOU HEAR?  I HATE YOU."

And I stood there shaking my fist above my head, yelling in the middle of the parking lot.  And now everyone who happened to be nearby (hint: many people) think I have a mental disorder or anger management issues.  If only they understood.

This is no exaggeration, the snow actually began to fall harder and thicker AS SOON AS I EXPRESSED MY FURY.  I don't understand why no one believes that the Universe hates me.  It's taunting me.  It's taunting me and there is no reasonable outlet because you can't just punch the Universe.  I guess I could punch the snow, but that would be awful because HELLO it's cold and wet.  The Universe has found the perfect weapon against me.

I was willing, maybe even hopeful, for a truce between myself and the snow.  I wanted to enjoy its sparkly beauty just like everyone else but, just as the white man and the Native American couldn't reconcile their differences and contagious diseases some 10 odd years ago (right?), I see no hope for peace here.  Except the likelihood that a holiday revolving around food will come from this feud is slim to none so THIS IS EVEN WORSE.

And you'd better believe I just said that this was even worse than that time Pilgrims settled America and virtually everyone died.  I don't know how I managed to end this post on an offensive note, so I guess I just have a talent.  Please send hate mail accordingly.

I am going to be killed by a pile of snow. Probably very soon.

Congratulations, my friends.  Since you read my blog, you are about to be treated to 4 months of me whining about the snow and how horrible it is and how much I hate it and how it is an attempt by the Universe to kill me.  Which it is.  I KNOW IT.

Here in Utah, Winter can last for half of the year.  HALF OF THE YEAR.  If the year has two parts, Winter is one of those parts.  I know, I know.  "MEGAN TRY LIVING IN MONTANA, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT COLD IS!!!"  Yes I do.  I don't live in Montana because if I did I would be dead.  And that's where my logic ends.

Anyway, it was snowing for a while up at campus.  Then, miraculously, it stopped!  I have been known to weep bitterly when I see the first snowfall of the year (hint:every single year) so when it stopped it felt like Christmas had come early and I was already enjoying the unicorn that I KNOW is waiting for me under the tree.  (I shook the present that looked like a book.  It sounded like a unicorn, or a book.  I'm betting it's a unicorn, though.  A unicorn with a monocle that will breathe glitter into my oatmeal.  I don't like oatmeal, but if I did, my unicorn would breathe glitter into it, cause he's a nice guy like that.)

Over the next few days, all of the snow melted because the sun was being awesome.  However, a few days before, some boys had made a snowman.  A big, huge snowman.  I took pleasure in watching this snowman die tragically.  Is that cruel?  I don't know.  I just know that, "DIE, Frosty, DIE!!" has become my new mantra.

Soon, all the snow had disappeared except for a big pile of half-melted snow where the snowman used to be:

It won't go away.  And it's mocking me.  And it hates me.  It's like the Universe just wants to make sure that I know that the battle isn't over.  Normally I would say "bring it on, UNIVERSE!" but now I'm scared that a slush pile monster is going to devour me when I least expect it.

Awesome.


Truest comment: "I think anyone who says they like/love Winter, doesn't really know what they mean by that. Winter is cold, dark, wet, lifeless and cruel. What they like is hot chocolate, cuddling cause "It'll make us warmer" skiing, snowboarding, getting WARM by the fire and the fact that Christmas must be getting close. You only like the snow if you're wearing five hoodies and A coat that's so thick you can't bend your arms. Too often do we misinterpret what it is we actually want."-leaflock

Well. This was much less exciting than that time I sat around and did nothing.

Today, Utah was all a-buzz with impending doom.

All the news stations were reporting that there would be a massive blizzard.  It would be The Storm To End All Storms.  It would go down in history as The Storm Of The Century.  It was going to be terrifying and yet, somehow, cathartic for all involved.  It would forever change Utah.  All Utahns would learn the value of friendship and courage in the face of adversity.  There would be epiphanies and realizations and wrongs made right.  But there would be mass deaths.  Mass tragedy.  Mass Costco crowds, stocking up on essential survival supplies, such as pasta, bottled water, and huge tanks of propane.  Also, wolverine guns.  Just in case the wolverines decided to take advantage of Utah's weakness and launched an attack.

I hate snow, with the fiery passion of someone who prefers tomatoes to snow.  Snow is horrible.  Snow tries to kill me on a regular basis.  Snow is The Universe's greatest weapon against me.  I have already nearly killed myself in the snow this year.  I must trudge through the snow to get to class.  Really, there is no way to emphasize how much I hate snow.  "But it is beautiful!" you say.  Yes.  Yes it is.  It is beautiful in exactly the way that a siren temptress's song is beautiful.  But then you get close and it smashes you upon the rocks and dines on your flesh.

And yet...I was kind of excited for this Monster Of All Blizzards.  I imagined a world in which I was the grim survivor of a catastrophe.  The Catastrophe Of A Lifetime.  I couldn't wait to prove to the snow and The Universe, once and for all, that I, Megan Audrey Prietzel, would conquer The Very Deadly Snow Event.  I was psyched.

The suspense built.  I came home from school early, hoping to beat the Crazy Stormy Storm that was sure to begin wreaking havoc on Utah at any freaking moment.  Tension filled the gray, chilly air.  My mother stocked up the entire house with supplies.  I made cookies.  Shaped like stars!!!!  (They are so cute, CAN YOU IMAGINE?!)

I turned on the television and decided to wait for Poseidon If He Were A Storm while watching Star Wars.  I finished A New Hope.  I looked outside.  No snow.  I finished The Empire Strikes Back.  I looked outside.  Godzilla Snow Attack had not yet begun raining terror.

Frustrated, I turned on the news.  "What's the deal, News?" I asked the T.V.

...Okay.  Alright.  It IS the news.  I'll buy it.  Voldemort Blizzard is coming.  I can wait.

....

I IS BAKE COOKIES NOWWWWW!!!!!

Three hours later, I had an image in my head of utter destruction.  I was so sure that outside, the world had come to a halt.  The Dreaded Storm Of Peril had killed the entire state, I was positive.  Eventually, the star cookies were baked and all that remained for me to do was assess the ruinous desolation that was sure to be my neighborhood.  

This was what I pictured:

This was the reality:

 For someone who plots for the eternal death of snow, this was pretty disappointing to me.

WHAT THE HECK, NEWS?  You have deceived me.  It was at this point that I began to realize what was happening.

I turned on the T.V. again.  Scenes of white outs, standstill traffic, survival kits, and men speculating about humanity's odds of utter destruction dominated the news station.  My suspicions were confirmed.

There was no storm.  This was all a clever hoax.  All of the evidence, all of the hype, all of the news reports were a ruse, a strike against me personally.  Obviously.  And I had fallen for it.

Touche, Universe.  Touche indeed.

Awkward things that hurt my soul.

Living away from home has brought up some serious issues in my day to day survival.  As it turns out, I actually require many things to survive never before considered.  Surprising things, like laundry.  I wake up and say "I know exactly what I need!  I need new socks to put on my feet!  I shall open up my sock drawer now!" and alas.  No socks are to be found.  Dirty laundry is to be found, but no socks.  (That whole scenario originally involved underpants, but I actually have plenty of underpants.  So if you were thinking about giving me a gift, socks would be better than underpants.  If enough people give me socks, I'll never have to wash the dirty ones.  You should buy me socks.) 

Half the time I find myself yelling "What do you mean I need money for that?  Give it to me!" or "Why are you standing in the hallway where I need to walk?" or "WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SHRUBBERY??"  There are no clear answers.  However, regardless of all my new-found responsibility, there is one other more pressing matter.

Some day to day occurrences are so mind-bogglingly awkward, I look up at the sky and whisper "whyyyyy?!" except I don't whisper very quietly and so most people stop and look at me and hope I don't have a knife on my person because I look like the kind of unstable psycho that might have a knife and use it irresponsibly.  Like for incorrect buttering.  Or stabbing.

Being unable to care for myself in even the most basic of fashions has led to an apparent inability to deal with normal occurrences with any degree of fortitude.  My awkwardness has increased about 3487 percent.  That's a rough estimate.

Naturally, I'm an awkward person.  It's one of the weapons that the Universe uses in its vendetta against my general health and well-being.  Recently, however, this has multiplied with my new level of responsibility to create my current method of dealing with life.  I am incapable of any kind of adult reaction.  This has led to very immature, anti-adult, reactions.  Such as stomping on inanimate objects.  Especially stairs.  I don't know why I do that.  Stairs don't care if I stomp on them.  In fact, that's more action than stairs have probably seen in a while.  Stairs are probably all "That's right, stomp harder!  Is that all you got, you little wuss?" and then stairs invert gravity for a moment and alter their molecular shape, causing me to fall.

Which brings me to point number one.

 Stairs that are either too short or too long for feet.


You probably know exactly what I'm talking about.  These stairs completely exacerbate my awkwardness. Stairs usually work like this:

Stairs, when properly designed, allow the user to walk comfortably downward or upward without much thought.  Any falling, tripping, or various methods of pain and death are direct results of the user's own physical failings, such as clumsiness or allergies.

Meet Stairs of Doom:

The above stairs are an example of perilous death.  These stairs are either a cruel joke or were built by people with extremely tiny feet and incredible balance.  These stairs cause you to topple down them mercilessly.  You will walk down them cautiously.  You will feel the slight pitch in gravity indicating your imminent fall.  You will brace yourself, and attempt to regain precious balance by flapping your arms uselessly and possibly uttering a grating shriek.  You will then hurtle to the ground.

When you are crumpled into a pathetic heap of shame and imbalance at the foot of the stairs, every bystander in the area will freeze for approximately three seconds before composing themselves enough to offer assistance.  You will pretend to be invisible.  It will become clear that you will be unable to pretend you are invisible.  You will raise your worthless carcass into a sitting position, mumble feebly that you are okay, and walk away as quickly as possible, registering the various bruises and abrasions now splashed across your elbows and knees.  You will hope that no one from the "stair incident" will ever see you in any other setting.  (Kind of like how I feel about Doug.  Doug works in the library.  Every time I see him, I wonder whether or not I should mention the fact that I almost ended his life on our first meeting.  I generally talk about it until things get awkward, which is immediately, and then I regret bringing it up.  Good times.)

Falling down these stairs will create a plethora of Dougs for your enjoyment.

Then there is this abomination:

These stairs are awkward and probably feel really insecure.  The steps themselves are very long, making the staircase stretch on into infinity.  When you use these stairs, you will not know how to walk.  Should you take two short steps on each stair, or you should you take extremely long steps and try not to faceplant?  Which will make you look less idiotic?  The answer: neither.  No matter what, you will look stupid.  These stairs were specifically designed to make you look as awkward and ridiculous as possible.  You will not descend with grace.  It's best to get it over with quickly.

Getting locked out.

Living in a dorm isn't all that bad for normal people.  You go to class, you shower in a stall, you return home and gossip with your roommate while watching various chick flicks.  For the regular, socially confident, not psychotic populace, it's a pretty good deal.  Then there's me.  My first week living in the dorms, I was locked out twice on accident after leaving my key inside the dorm, and then once due to my inability to perform simple functions like not lose my keys.  It didn't take long for every staff member who was even tenuously linked to keys to be able to recognize me on sight.

My mental well-being usually relies on the certainty that I am not burdening any strangers with my existence.  I have this guilt issue.  For example:  Last night I had a dream that I got hit by a semi-truck, damaging the truck in the process.  The driver got out of the car and yelled at me for ruining the truck and as I sat there on the street, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt.  I felt guilty for causing minor damage to a semi-truck that had just flattened me.  Moments like these make me think I probably need to reevaluate my priorities.

Anyway.  The point is, I've been locked out a million times, and have to choose one of two options.  I either have to wait for my roommate to return, or go find someone with a master key to open the door for me.  I agonize over the decision, weighing the pros and cons, seeing only cons in both options, and finally I decide to find someone to open the door for me.  This always, without fail, leads to awkward conversation.  I live on the third floor.  The office is on the first floor.  I walk up seemingly endless flights of stairs next to someone who is as uncomfortable with making small talk as I am.

Me: ...........
Helpful Key Person: .......So.  Locked out, huh?
Me: Um.  Yep.
Helpful Key Person:  Yeah.  [Silence as we continue to climb the stairs.]  So.  Third floor?
Me: Uh huh.  Third floor.
Helpful Key Person:  Okay.  [More silence.  More stairs.]  It sure is a long walk to the third floor.
Me:  Yeah, the third floor is about three floors up, I think.
Helpful Key Person:  Yes I think that's about correct.
Me: ...............
Helpful Key Person: ................ 
Me: ...............[Still more stairs.  Finally, third floor hallway.  A long walk to my door.]
Helpful Key Person: Okay here we are.  [Opens door]
Me: Okay, um, thanks a lot.  [Worries for the rest of the night that Helpful Key Person hates me and I'll never be friends with Helpful Key Person and now the state of Utah is going to explode and it will be all my fault for losing my keys.]


Pants in general.


I often wonder what pants' problem is.  What the heck, pants?  Who invented you, anyway?  Why are you so annoying?  Especially jeans.  What kind of a person decided that jeans were a good idea?

Pain is fun!  Shimmying like a disabled lemur is awesome because it helps me get my pants on.

My favorite is when it takes twenty minutes.


The dreaded double-double door.

This is a double door:

 This is a double double door:

In theory, these doors aren't all that difficult to use.  You just walk through one set, then proceed through the next, and carry on your merry way.  This concept works very well until you throw in polite people.

Invariably, some kind-hearted soul will hold open the first set of doors.  "What a nice gesture!"  I think to myself as I carry on through the open door, saying "thank you!" loudly to Nice Guy.  Nice Guy then enters behind me, and we find ourselves at the second set of doors.  Having entered first, I am closer to the second set of doors than Nice Person.  I awkwardly reach for the handle.  Nice Guy awkwardly reaches for the handle, intent on continuing his kind deed of the day.  At this point, there's chivalry to think about.  Should I let Nice Guy hold open the door for me again?  If he does, do I mumble "Thank you" again?  Does the first "Thank you" carry over here, or should I ecstatically say it again?  Or should I hold the door open for Nice Guy?  What if Nice Guy expects me to?  What if he wants to be chivalrous, though?  What if opening the door tells him that I didn't appreciate the first door? WHAT IF NICE GUY DOESN'T LIKE ME ANYMORE?!

At this point my face usually betrays my inner turmoil.  99 times out of 100, Nice Guy is perfectly normal and simply holds the door open for me a second time, smiles politely, and walks away.  Nice Guy probably doesn't think about this at all as the day goes on.  I am not so lucky.

I usually end up knocking over a desk or something later though, so that gives me something else to agonize over.

This is why bees are murdering crack dealers. At least, I assume they are. It's inferred.

I have these ridiculous fears, sometimes fears that go all the way back to childhood.  Some of them developed completely randomly, like I wake up one morning and say to myself "today, I am afraid of (insert irrational object/place) for the rest of my life starting now and forever and ever shall I fear this thing forever.  Amen."  I'm always told to conquer my fears.  Yeah.  You wanna know who tried to conquer fear?  Abraham Lincoln.  And he's dead.  (At least I think it was fear he was conquering.  Or maybe the Confederacy....no.  Pretty sure it was fear.)

Traumatizing thing that scares me: Bees.

Bees are the Universe's way of telling me it wants me to die a slow, painful death.  I'm not allergic, so actually I probably wouldn't die if I ever were confronted by bees, but it's the principle of the thing.  I would feel like dying.  I shriek and cry every time I see one.  I hate all bees, including hornets and yellow jackets.  I know they aren't real bees, per se, but they're just as freaking terrifying, so I don't really know why there's a distinction.

And why are they called "bumblebees"?  That sounds adorable.  When I hear the word bumblebee, this is what I picture:

I am adorable because I am a bumblebee.

This is an actual photograph of a real, live bee:

I am a real bee.  I shoot lasers out of my antennae.  I will maul your family with my ability to kill you.

It's dangerous, calling this kind of monstrosity a bumblebee.  It's misleading and will probably cause death.  It's like if I called a grizzly bear a wugglesbear.  It's like saying boogleygator.  Or a great white I just want to love you shark.

When I was a kid, my family went to a park as a fun outing.  I don't remember the details of the day, except for sheer terror.  My brother and I took turns rolling down a hill.  It was very exciting.

Immediately traumatized.  Especially vivid in my memory is the image of several bees implanted in the skin of my waist.  They were out for blood, venom sacs pulsating rhythmically, each pump saying "Hello, I am currently poisoning you, please die now."  I screamed and I cried and I will never recover from the terror of that day.  B-day.  But...not like "Birthday."  I was making a clever reference to D-day.  But with bees.  Except...just the letter...  I swear I'm funny sometimes.

And you know what else?  Besides being absolutely horrifying, bees are liars.  They break their own rules.  I was older when I discovered this.  Now, when I was a kid of about ten, I thought I was so cool that ice was produced in my brain.  Except cooler than that.  Like, if my brain made ice, and the ice was magic and granted you three wishes, and one of those wishes was always one million dollars plus a pet velociraptor all in one wish and you still had two more wishes.  That's how cool I thought I was.

So one day I was entertaining a group of six year old children, telling them how brave and fearless I was.  My mother had tried to calm my fear of bees by telling me that if I didn't move, they wouldn't sting me.  I took that to heart.  I worshiped that rule.  I was safe from the tyranny of bees forever.  No bee could harm me!  This I explained to the wide-eyed children. 

Me: If you just don't move, the bees won't hurt you because they'll think you're a tree or something.  I don't know.  But they won't hurt you.
Kid: Really?  You aren't even scared?
Me: Nope!  I'm very courageous because bees will never get me.
Kid: Whoaaa, tell us all about how awesome you are!
Me: Well, I am so---

At this point, a bee landed directly on my finger.  I had been motioning grandly with my arms in order to emphasize how unbelievably awesome I was.  As the bee descended upon my innocent appendage, I shuddered to a stop.  Even my expression froze in place.  I was a statue, a heroic statue gazing upon the enemy.  I was confident.  I was going to win.  I was about to demonstrate my power. 

I stared at the bee.  It stared at me.  It had tiny little fangs and I'm pretty sure it whispered "I hate you and all that you stand for."  And then it stung me.  Twice.

I screamed and screamed and screamed and cried and cried and cried and had to be physically lifted off the playground, surrounded by a group of traumatized six year olds.

"WHYYYY!!??  WHY DID IT STING ME?!  WHY, I HELD STILL AND I DIDN'T MOVE *GURGLE GASP SOB* AND YOU SAID IF I DIDN'T MOVE IT WOULDN'T GET ME!!"

Bees aren't supposed to sting you if you hold still.  It's part of the bee code.  Everyone knows that "if you leave it alone, it will leave you alone" because "it's more afraid of you than you are of it." 

I just don't know what to believe anymore.

I haven't been stung by a bee since that incident, but I'm pretty sure my mind has dramatized the memory of pain to the point that if I ever were to get stung, I would go into shock and die, because that's exactly the kind of thing I associate with bees.  Shock and DEATH.

I've considered giving a peace offering to the Universe. Does that show weakness? Or is it my survival instinct?

My birthday was last Monday, and I had come home from my new dorm to sleep over on Sunday.  The plan was to return to school on Monday for the first day of class.  Which sounds like a pretty good plan until you consider the fact that I'm an idiot and was all "hey, you know what sounds like a good idea?  An accelerated Portuguese class at eight o' clock in the morning.  WOW GOOD IDEA."  So I'm all ready to leave my house at a ridiculously early hour, so as to make it to school with time to get ready for class and such.

As it turns out, there's this boy Doug who is somehow related to my mom's boyfriend in some obscure way.  He goes to the same school as me, so I'm set to give him a ride back since it's on the way.  Poor, poor Doug.  (He's not dead.  I didn't kill him.  Almost, but not quite.) 

I drive out in the wee hours of the morning, I'm all jabbering about how it's my birthday and OHEMGEEEE I'm 18 now, can you believe it DOUG?!  Also, Doug, do you KNOW how OLD I AM?!?!  GUESS, DOUG!  Just guess.

And he's being all politely interested as we zoom...right past the freeway entrance.  No fear!  I shall simply flip an innocuous u-turn up yonder!  It shall be a frolic!  A breeze!  Perhaps we shall laugh airily whilst our hair billows in the completely harmless wind which happens to be accompanied by rain and booming thunder!  Tra la la!

Ten seconds later, my beautiful car is totaled and Doug's all "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" except he was too polite to do that so mostly inside his head he screamed "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!" but what he said was "Um...it's not so bad."  What a guy.

Two policemen and an interesting phone call to my mother later, Doug and I are on our way to school again, but this time in my mother's car.  We dropped Doug off at his apartment, then I started to feel kind of odd.  And not odd in the normal way that I usually feel odd.  More like in a "Hmmm, I physically feel crappier than normal" kind of a way.  Neck, why won't you move properly?  Eyes, focus!  Balance, you seem to be even more absent than usual.  Methinks something is slightly off.  I expressed this concern to my mother, who promptly started driving in the opposite direction of my dorm room, and soon we ended up at a hospital.

We walked into the emergency room, and I was kind of disappointed because no one rushed up to me and started yelling "STAT!" like they do in movies.  I assume it's because I wasn't bleeding.  Except maybe in my brain.  But you can really see brain-blood right away, so the doctors were probably like:

Doctor 1: Hey, Richard, an emergency patient!  Hurry, get your STAT! ready!
Doctor 2: EVERYONE, PREPARE TO STAT!  Where is she bleeding?!
Doctor 1: Um well...oh I guess she isn't bleeding.  Maybe she's delivering girl scout cookies.
Doctor 2:  Oh!  I love thin mints.  Alright, false alarm, everyone.  Save your STAT!  No, Teresa, I said SAVE IT!  [Camera pans out the window to a scenic sunset] We don't need it...not today...not right now.  But there's always the threat of tomorrow.  [Theme music plays, credits roll, and they don't even show my visit to the E.R.  Those JERKS.]

(Doctors totally say STAT! right?  I feel like you can't say the word STAT! without caps and an exclamation point.  It would be a misspelling.)

Anyway, I very anticlimactically entered the Emergency Room and this lady took me to a room and pointed at a poster of a bunch of faces with expressions on a scale of happy to sad, which was supposed to indicate my level of pain.  She told me to tell her which face was most like my pain, and I was kind of confused because she could see my face better than I could, and if she wanted me to tell her which face matched, she could at least have given me a mirror or something.

So finally I get into my "room" and they made me lay on a hospital bed which was much less cool than you'd think.  Except maybe no one would ever think that was cool but me.  The guy in the room next to me was yelling and going "UUUNGHHH Aaaheihoi! Gurglejwoiphwoi!" and I felt the blood drain from my face because it occurred to me that they might put needles in me.  Like...an IV.  Or something.  And suddenly it didn't seem so bad that maybe I had a concussion.  A concussion isn't so bad, right?  It's just a little bump from the world to say "be more careful next time!  Here's a lollipop, kiddo!"

The nurses and doctors came in and out of the room for a while, and then a nurse came in and tried to make me wear a neck brace, but that didn't work out, partially because I didn't want to wear the "pretty birthday necklace" but mostly because the adult size didn't fit me.  So the nurse came back and strapped on a brightly colored child's size.  Apparently my neck is the size of a six year old's.  Good thing I went to the Emergency Room, or I would have never known that crucial fact about my neck.
The nurses and doctor were all very nice, and listened to me rant about how it was my birthday and AM I GOING TO DIE?!  Except I had more composure than that, don't worry.  Well, the wonderful staff gave me a little plastic tub full of birthday candy and goodies, and they all signed it.  It was a very nice little souvenir.

After that, a nurse pulled up the bars on my bed and pushed me in to the CAT scan room.  She wheeled me in and whispered "stay here."  At that point I was pretty confused and I wanted to whisper back "where am I gonna go?'" because I was wearing a neon neck brace and hospital gown, and I'm pretty sure that if I'd left the hospital that way, I would've been back PRETTY DANG QUICK.

Apparently nothing was wrong with my brain, and I was surprised they didn't mention the obvious crazy.  Maybe they were just trying to be delicate.  They did, however, ask me if I was pregnant at least three times.  Maybe they get a lot of pregnant chicks coming in for CAT scans.  I can understand that.  If I were pregnant, a CAT scan would be the first on my list of "things I should do."

My mother and I sat in my hospital room for an hour waiting for various paperwork and CAT scan results and such.  My mother walked up to my bed very nonchalantly.  That's how I knew she was about to do something crazy.  She looked out the open door, made sure no one was watching, and then gave the bars on the bed a violent shove.  And I was all "I'M SORRY ABOUT THE CAR" but it turns out she wasn't punishing me.  She was just fascinated by the bars.  She spent about twenty minutes yanking, shoving, and (my favorite) kicking the bars trying to get them to come down.  Meanwhile, I laughed hysterically.  Every twenty seconds or so, she'd look out the door at the nurse who obviously thought there was something wrong with us, and smile innocently.  And wave.  And stand awkwardly.  Born actress, that woman.

Four hours after coming to the hospital, I left, nothing whatsoever wrong with me except this horrible, terrible thing called "whiplash."  As long as I live, I will always hate whiplash.

I went home to my dorm, and then the ridiculous continued.  The next morning, I couldn't turn my neck, and therefore had to turn my entire body when looking at anything not directly in front of my face.  It was very normal and no one stared at me at all.

The next few days went like this: I lost the key to my dorm, lost the key to my mailbox, lost my school I.D. (which happens to be the only way to access my dining plan=NO FOOD FOR MEGAN), lost my class schedule, lost my campus map, got lost after an evening class on campus as a result, wandered around for two hours, seriously considered sleeping on the concrete all night, dragged my aching body back and forth from my dorm to the last place I'd seen my keys over and over, and then finally had someone working in my dorm let me in my room.  Then I paid for all new keys and I.D., only to receive a message from a very nice person saying "HEY I FOUND YOUR STUFF" and so now I have copies which is cool except they're changing my locks just in case a psycho had found my keys and tried to break in and steal all the Capri Sun from my mini fridge.  Also, my computer decided to refuse to connect to the internet, despite the purchase of an expensive anti-virus program and an ethernet cord, because I need to "update" my computer, so I DOWNLOADED EVERY STUPID UPDATE and it still doesn't work.  Then I got offered a much needed job, had that job cruelly taken away from me by no fault of my own (for once) and did not get to ride on a unicorn.  Again.

I've come to the logical conclusion that I'm not very good at college.

Apparently horses don't like to be named. Except for ponies. They dig that crap.

So I went to prom, but not at my school. Which is weird. Because I'm about the last person on earth who would ever go to a prom. I'm so anti-prom, it's insane. And surprisingly, there was no disaster. I did not die. The world did not collapse. Even the heels of death that I had to wear didn't kill me. (I had to wear heels. The guy I went with is related to skyscrapers, I'm pretty positive.)

My "prom group" ate at this fancy Italian restaurant, and no one could remember its name, but they thought it was something like Biotch-y's. Which sounded both delicious and family friendly. P.S. It was Biaggi's. Whatever, you'll always be Biotch-y's to me, Biaggi's.

Anyway, while we were there, this friendly waitress informed me that she graduated from East High, and oh my goodness MEGAN DON'T YOU LOVE EAST?? And I was all "oh...yay...go leopards." and she got sort of excited. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hate high school with the flaming heat of a thousand passionate suns. So instead I just thought of kickboxing flamingos, because that always makes me smile, and she seemed to think I was just reflecting on my grand and happy time at East. Good to know I enriched a life. I bet she wishes she were me. Probably, anyway. Except maybe not because I was wearing death trap heels, and if I were someone else, I would be all "NUH UH NOT WORTH IT."

And then I didn't get to try on scuba diving equipment. But whatever, it's not like I even care.
(I so care...do you have scuba diving equipment? Can I borrow it?)

BUT WAIT!

Prom was located at the Utah State Capitol and no one tried to arrest me. Either they didn't recognize me as that girl who once tried to be the Supreme Dictator of the State of Utah, or they were instructed to let me run amok because of my Jedi abilities.  For some reason.

Rich the news man was not there. He must have been busy.

When we first arrived, the Utah State Capitol Official High School Representative Administrator Woman told my date, Tyler, to spit out his gum, and we had a really long, really awkward conversation about it. And she kept looking at him expectantly, and Tyler was all "um I'll spit it out later." Well good 'ol USCOHSRA Woman wasn't down with that, and she kept doing that horrible adult thing and said "Oh but look at your lovely date! She's so lovely and beautiful! Your gum is making her look bad!" And I almost laughed, but I didn't so don't worry. I do have some self control. Also, when I get into awkward situations, I like to imagine that I'm captain of a pirate boat deciding which of my companions is disposable and should therefore walk the plank, because I have limited funds and the failing economy is really hitting me badly, and if I ever want to upgrade to a ship, I need to kill off a few of the mateys I have to split my pirate booty with. It keeps my mind off of the general "Well this is a terrible situation"-ness of things.


I wasn't even the clumsiest one at the dance. Tyler spilled water from the water jug all over the table and floor, and then he walked away, and we both watched as the teachers cleaned up his mess. He looked guilty. I looked worried. Why? Because! All the supervision was busy dealing with a water jug crisis! ANYTHING COULD HAVE HAPPENED WHILE THEY WERE MOPPING UP. People could have died, you guys. You can imagine what it was like.

Teenage horde: Let's behave!
Adult: OH MY GOODNESS LOOK AT THAT WATER SPILL! Quick, Angela, you get a towel, I'll turn off the water flow, and George, you go make sure there's still peanut brittle left in the kitchen, because I'm hungry. The rest of you stand and watch the water jug. ADULT SUPERVISION SQUAD, BREAK!
Teenage horde: Let's dance provocatively!
Adult: It's not drying, for Pete's sake! IT'S JUST NOT DRYING! Somebody get a mop and a hairdryer!
Teenage horde: Let's chew gum loudly!
Adult: It's like the gosh darn Titanic in here!
Teenage Horde: We're going to eat too many cookies and drink too many Redbulls!

And by the time the adults realized what was going on, it was too late and all those kids were NEVER going to fall asleep and would be really grumpy the next morning, and it was all Tyler's fault.

Pretty much the most "Megan is socially unacceptable" part of the night was when I fell asleep at the after-activity, which was supposed to be a movie night, and started crying when my buddy pals tried to wake me up. It went a little something like this.

Austin(not my date): Megan, what movie do you want to watch?
Me: (SILENCE)
Austin: She's sleeping. (Pokes me) Hey...time for school.
Me: UGHHHH gurgle UGHHH
Austin: (giggle) HEY TIME FOR SCHOOL YOU'RE LATE!
Me: (Whimper) Noooo shhh.
Austin: (giggle giggle) WAKE UP!
Me: (sit up, tears running down my face) STOP! I'M NOT GOING! (sob, fall back asleep)
Tyler (is my date):...poke her again.

And that's pretty much verbatim.

But I haven't even gotten into the best part.

Before any of this, something ridiculous happened. I rode a horse. And I was terrified. I rode TWO horses. Not at the same time, although that would have been awesome. But both horses tried to kill me. Not kidding, they started running around like maniacs the second I got on. And it was only for me, no one else was almost horse-mauled. Everyone laughed because apparently my fear noise sounds like dying horses. My friends are awesome. If I had a camera, I could show you guys pictures. Instead, I'll have to wait for my buddy pals to send me pictures.

So the first horse was short-ish and I only sort of had to hobbit-scramble onto it. I named it Crazy Killerpants Hitler, because it was horrible. And the horse trainer woman kept yelling "Don't pull the reins back so far, it needs head room!" and I was like...YEAH RIGHT. Because if it had head room, it would twist its head around and kill me with its mouth. And um, yeah, I'm not going to die of horse mouth, thank you very much, horse trainer woman. Then I got off and cried a little, because Crazy Killerpants Hitler wanted me dead. For real, guys. I could smell it. She kept randomly shaking her head so hard I though I was going to fly off and get trampled into the mud. Mud that was covered in horse excrement. Which is 3rd on my list of "Horrible Ways to Die" right after watching a 34 hour marathon of the Hills and eating melted cheese until exploding.

So then the horse woman was all "oh try this horse, she's the one we let little kids ride!" Really? They let the kids ride her? Because she was horrible, WAY worse than before. And I knew, because that wasn't my first rodeo. My first rodeo was approximately five minutes before that, and Crazy Killerpants Hitler taught me enough about horses to last me for forever and three years on the side. But because I'm brave, I decided to give it a shot. So I mounted a calm looking brown horse with a name that had to do with flowers. I think. It could have been more related to nuclear warfare. I confuse the two a lot. So anyways, I'm just trotting along on flower nuclear warfare horse, when the horse is all "I HAVE THE SUDDEN DESIRE TO KILL THE SMALL TERRIFIED CHICK IN MY SADDLE. LET'S DO THIS." and suddenly she's running towards a gate and a tree and I gave out some kind of unintelligible siren scream. And horse woman is all "PULL BACK ON THE REINS!" and I'm all "YOU SHOULDN'T LET KIDS RIDE THIS THING!" and I took back the name I had been considering calling her (Sunnny Sparkles Supreme) and instead her name is Deathray Julius.

I hate horses so much. Unless I'm not riding them. Then I just dislike them immensely. Except for the baby pony that I saw. It kept trying to eat my sleeve. He's called Webster Adorable.

My feud with The Universe Pt. 1

The Universe: Good morning, Megan. There's snow outside, your dog is dead, and you just lost three million on the stock market.

Well. The first one is true.