I wanted to keep you all informed about the many ailments I’ve contracted in the past week or so. I know you’ve been worried since my last post, which you can read here.
Status: First of all, I won’t keep you in suspense…I’m still alive. Mobility is high, breathing is steady, vitals** are stable. Poop parts are doing their thing* at least once a day.
*If this is your first time reading my blog, I’m sorry you had to hear that. That’s a lie, I’m not sorry. Me pooping at least once a day while traveling is BIG FUCKING NEWS and I’m basically ecstatic to relay it to anyone and everyone who will listen. You’ll get used to it.
**I don’t actually know what “vitals” are. I think mine are stable though.
Spread: I don’t think I’ve passed on my funk to Caitlin, although I’m a little worried about her roommate because I accidentally drank out of her wine glass the other night (please don’t alarm her – I’m just gonna wait and see what happens).
Exposure: The grumpy English girl I was sharing room with left a couple days ago, so I’m by myself now. This is awesome because she was a pretty unpleasant person to be around, and also because she stayed here a long time, which means she’s likely carrying ALL of the diseases; her leaving means my exposure is cut by at least 20-30%, I’m guessing.
I was all excited about this, but then yesterday morning Jakob the German Guy Who Hangs Out in the Kitchen decided I’m his new friend and has been talking to me a lot ever since. A lot, y’all. Like a lot a lot. He has an unusually large mouth and a big pointy laugh that he keeps aiming directly toward all of my face holes. You would think he’d give up since I keep clamping my eyes shut and plugging my nose every time he starts talking, but it appears his disease delirium makes him unaware of such social cues. Anyways, I’m not quite out of the woods yet.
Sanitation: The onion is still in the bathroom sink and I haven’t been able to find any soap for post-poo handwashing.
So I’ve started carrying my shampoo with me everywhere. Not that I’m pooping everywhere (things aren’t that bad yet). But since no one else here seems to be washing their hands after they use the bathroom, I can only assume their “particles” are plastered on all the doorknobs and spoons and things. So. Shampoo in hand, always. Or – more accurately – in that big pocket of my cargo pants I’ve been dying to use.
I also did a hefty scrubbing of my room after Little Miss Germbag left. Might be a little helpful, but since I only had a roll of toilet paper and a cup of water to clean with, I’m not getting my hopes up.
On the plus side, I found a box of bendy glowstick things while I was cleaning! I’m using them to Patch Adams myself into a better mindset about this whole impending death business.
This is what I’m focused on now: Think positive, have fun, remember the good times, be grateful for the life I’ve lived.
Have as many sexual encounters with strangers as possible.
(Could be worse ways to go, I guess.)
I’m also seeing a bit of Melbourne to keep my spirits high. This is a city that’s full of weird, which is exactly what I need right now.
More on that later. For now, I want to make sure all of my wishes are carried out once I’m gone from this world:
To Ben: All of my opera books. You probably already have them, but mine are covered in tears, which makes them much more dramatic than the clean ones you buy from the college bookstore. You can also have my religion books. Which are also covered in tears.
Lindsey, Ciara, and Meagan: My Osprey backpack, Lonely Planet guidebooks, and foreign language dictionaries. You guys can duke it out to see who gets what. Please film the fight and post it on snapchat. The world thanks you.
To my sisters: My knitting supplies. I know none of you give a crap about knitting, but these are honestly the things I love most, so I’m bequeathing them to you. If you sell them or give them to Goodwill, I will fucking haunt you, I swear to God. My directives are this: #1 Be grateful I left you something – I’m poor, and these are the only things I own of any value. #2 Freaking learn to knit, because it’s way cheaper than therapy, and just as effective (look at the good it did me, amiright?). #3 Teach your bebes. And while you’re teaching them, tell them how awesome I am. Was. You should also duke it out and post it on the internet (my sisters are hot, y’all).
To Harry and Donna and Warren: You can keep all that stuff I stored in your basement(s). I forget what it is now, but it’s yours. And Harry, please can you ship that box of knitting stuff to my sisters? Thx. (I love you.)
The Youth of The Possibility Project: There is a box among the crap I left to Harry and Donna and Warren that is full of old TPP shirts. Ciara will bring it to the next show for you guys to disperse amongst yourselves before a moment of silence in my honor. Sorry if they smell a little funky – I doubt they’ve been washed.
To my nieces and nephews: My ashes, which I demand you each scatter a bit of in a different country, not America (and no, Texas does not count as “another country, not America”). I’m sorry, I have no money to help you get there. And yes, this is me forcing you to see the world, fucking deal with it, IT’S GOOD FOR YOU.
To Mom and Dad: The folder on my desktop with THE ONLY PICTURES YOU’RE ALLOWED TO USE IN MY OBITUARY. Harry knows the password. I’m not joking, you DO NOT get to use that “great photo of Kelly” you snapped at Christmas. You are both wonderful people, but abysmal at capturing my exotic beauty in candids. I’m serious about this. You are to call Harry and he will get you the photos. You also get any money that’s left in my bank accounts to pay for my cremation. I know that shit’s expensive. p.s. I never got life insurance, so don’t waste your time looking for it.
Everyone else: Basically the rest of my stuff is all old collectible Slurpee cups and mismatched socks. I don’t know if anyone will want those, but if you do, leave a comment below and someone will contact you directly to make the hand-off.
That’s it, I think. See you jerks in the afterlife.
Note: Because I am a moral person (who is also on the verge of judgement day), I feel I should confess that I stole those wings from a google image search I did just now. They were drawn by a girl who calls herself Rotten-Alice, and apparently it’s a tattoo she designed for her sister.
Rotten-Alice, I’m sorry I stole your wings. Although you did just leave them out there on the internet for anyone to take. (Copyright your shit, yo.) I’d be grateful if you didn’t sue me for using them without your permission. This blog doesn’t make me any money to begin with, and I doubt your wing things are going to change that. Plus, I’m a dying woman, have some goddamn decency, Jesus H. Christ.
If you’re wondering what the hell this post was about, you probably didn’t read my last one.