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Friday, July 29, 2011

Tonsil Time.

Dressed in a fabulous paper gown, I layed in a hospital bed looking at clouds. It was just a small, rectangle patch of designed glass that covered the flattering fluorescent lights, but I stared at it anyway. Was it suppose to comfort or distract me from the surgery I am about to undergo? My mom entered the room and commented on how pretty the cloud patch was. She teaches ten year olds so sometimes she thinks like one. But then, I get it. Tonsils are usually taken out when you are young, NOT when you are twenty-five. While I bleakly looked at the clouds wondering what the hell they were doing there, ten year olds look and are strangely comforted and distracted.

The nurses gave me a calming iv drip and then I do not remember much. I have a vague remembrance of them turning me over to put a shot -- the anesthesia -- in my behind. So I passed out before the anesthesia even came? Go me. I awoke to two nurses fighting over who got to put the oxygen mask on me. I took the nurse’s on my right’s side then closed my eyes. I awoke again to the left nurse telling the other I am twenty-five. I mumbled I was going to write an article about being twenty-five and getting my tonsils out once I recover. They looked confuse but nodded, like when a child is describing their imaginary friend and adults pretend to believe them.

For the following nine days I ate pastina, applesauce, and organic baby food (I cannot describe how disgusted I currently am by any pureed food, but if anyone has an urge, go for Mango Pear). Each day a new part of my throat/head hurt: first and foremost my esophagus, followed by my molars, then my ears rang and my tongue swelled. The roof of my mouth also enlarged and when I swallowed the fruit mush my nose squeaked. I felt like a blow fish with sliced insides. On day eight I threw up continuously and it is deciphered I overdid it on the prescribed Tylenol Codeine. Typical.

After two weeks of my mother’s care and bad television, I was cleared to go back to my apartment, job, and everyday life -- although, still wary of hacking up scabs and bleeding -- lovely. It is odd to look at the back of my mouth and see two black holes where my tonsils once were. And it is more bizarre to think for two weeks I regressed to being a child again because of a surgery typically done to children. Let’s just hope I don’t get strep for the fifth time this year.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

I have a friend crush!

But I do not think he wants to be my friend. This makes me sad.

I am an intern now. An eager, overzealous editorial intern for an online magazine. I sit in the corner table with three other interns while the superior, editorial staff are aligned in front of us. They play a lot of 90s pop music and ignore us interns until we need to update spreadsheets or transcribe an interview. That appears as fine to the other interns (whom I call "the mutes") but me being a miserable, bored waitress, 'causes me to chime into the staff's conversations with silly anecdotes or questions. I do not think they appreciate these contributions. They are not used to those-not-being-paid to talking.

My friend crush sits completely across the room, opposite me. After labeling everyone in the office on my first day -- it's called boredom, not judgmental -- I decided he will be my friend. He makes me laugh, in that stupid, outburst guffaw kind of way with his intelligent witticisms and interesting comments. He also drew me in with his shaggy hair and plaid shirts. Since the editors never saw interns reacting to their antics, I am sure everyone believes I am laughing and socializing with myself. Which, in a way, I am.

We had our first intern meeting yesterday. It was there I repeatedly expressed my desire to write articles for the site and volunteered to become the resident sex editor if they need ideas on how they can hire me permanently. If not, I could write about punk rock since their music editor mainly writes about hip hop. Apparently, I have become an expert on that, too.

I cannot help being vocal. I want to stop telling people about home fries and smelling like a steak every time I go out! I want to stop watching others celebrate their life! I will blame my behavior on having a strange reaction to sitting in an office for eight hours. I know if I was already an editor and some intern was acting like me now -- like the girl who always raises her hand and recites every answer -- I'd be annoyed (by me).

But I put my life on pause for three years. Waitressing has broken me and left me craving more. I wish these editors could understand how desperate I was before I entered their building, how being hired was like winning American Idol. It is my chance to show the world (and myself) what I can do.