Why be Zormal?

DISCLAIMER: My mother has nothing to do with how strange I am. I am in no way implying that my childhood was in any way traumatic or imperfect. I accept full responsibility for every decision I made from the age of birth to now. I do not think that the fact my mom ran while she was pregnant with me "shook my brains up" as I have previously implied. Nor do I believe that my dad's "wizened old man sperm" caused damage to the part of my brain that manages impulse control.

As some of you may have noticed, I'm just not super normal. I say things that should not be said and do things that should not be done.

How did I become this way? I've decided to show you, not in words, but pictures.

1992ish

This is the first time I got high. I was almost two, which would be a family record, if it hadn't been for that time Uncle Bill accidentally...okay, this is getting off topic. I'm not here to point fingers or contradict what the DEA was told during their investigation. This is about me.

When I was about 2, it was decided that instead of going through life earning unfavorable nicknames based on the fact that my right eye turned in towards my nose, I would undergo surgery.

Things have changed in hospitals since 1992. They no longer shoot you up with what I'm assuming is the baby equivalent of crack cocaine and then allow you to wander the halls like a zombie. There are many pictures of me under the influence, mostly sitting in chairs looking at my feet in amazement. I'm glad my parents found my drug induced antics worth photographing. Hell, if they had done that in high school I might have a lot more memories of my senior year.

1992ish

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and my parents needed a wine that would multitask. Enter Franzia. As we all know, Franzia is so much more than just a breakfast drink. For around $10, you get:

• Box- this is very convenient for carrying and storing your bag of wine. After it's served it's initial purpose you can use it to transport small animals or make a dollhouse Or, as my parents did, collect about 15 or 20 and turn them into gigantic building blocks! Fun for everyone!
  
• Bag- Keeps the wine from making a huge mess. When you've finished the wine (should take 1-4 days depending on how dedicated you are to your child's happiness) the bag can be inflated to make fun pool toys, or, in the case of Cuban nationals, a raft to get the Hell out of Cuba. (Must look into this...could start a Harriet Tubman-esque Franzia rescue mission.)
• Actual Wine- Great for helping you forget that you procreated too soon/too late and will now have to be raising children during the prime of your life/paying for college with your retirement fund. Also can serve as life saving transfusion material if you happen to be the son of christ.
  

1994

When I showed this picture to my mom, she pointed out that no one had actually forced me to eat a duck head. I chose to do this because I knew it would be a good way to get attention. Nice to see nothing's changed.

All I can be sure of is that summer, while most of my friends were at Myrtle beach eating hot dogs and chicken fingers, I was in Beret-ville chowing down on goose liver pate and gnawing on duck heads.

1996

Not a lot to say about this one. I'm just not sure why not one of the at least 9 people that were present at this second could tell me that my shirt was on backwards. Maybe it was because the expression on my face was so explosively ecstatic they couldn't bear to bring me down.

If this picture had a caption I'm pretty sure it would be "ZOMFG I AM SO FUCKING HAPPY TO BE ON THIS FUCKING SOCCER TEAM THAT IF I OPEN MY FUCKING EYES MY FUCKING BRAIN WILL EXPLODE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Which is weird, because I distinctly remember hating soccer.

If anyone even finds this vaguely amusing, I have more pictures, including my "blue" phase, which lasted, by my calculations, for 12 years.

In Which I Go to the Walk In Clinic and Make New Friends

I haven't been feeling too great lately. Sinus stuff, chest cold, you know the drill. Anyways, my dad finally got tired of me coughing all over him, especially in the light of the fact that he was heading to a third world country in a few days and the remedy for a cold there is like, to chop of your privates or something equally heinous. He ordered me to go to the doctor. This posed a problem, as the university health center was closed for the holidays. I don't really have a general practitioner, so I decided to call my gynocologist. She told me she couldn't help me with ailments above the waist, but if I got syphilis to come on in.

I then called my psychiatrist.

Me: I need antibiotics. I have a sinus infection.

Shrink: Look deeper. Is that the real reason you called?

Um. Yes. Yes, it is. I ended that call quickly.

The next option was a walk in clinic. There are a few in town, so I looked them up online. The first one I looked at, SmartERclinix, whose slogan is "Like the ER...But for Smart People!" I shit you not. I wondered if they tested your IQ before they treated you.

I decided on Regional First Care, because they didn't make you join Mensa before getting poked and prodded. I played a few more games of word bubbles, then left home.

I walked into the clinic and raspily greeted the desk attendant.

"How can I help you?" she greeted me, cheerfully.

This is the part I don't understand. Why must I torture people? This girl was about my age, just innocently doing her job, and I have to ruin that?

"I have an eggplant stuck up my bum." I whispered, conspiratorially.

She looked quite taken aback.

"Just kidding. I have a cold."

Relief. Her eyes darted around the room as she laughed nervously, securing the locations of the closest exits in her mind should I approach her again.

But I didn't stop there.

They determined my head was all swollen up inside and I needed a steroid shot. I knew where that was going.

Male Nurse: I'm going to give you this injection in your hip.

Me: That's just a fancy way of saying ass.

Male Nurse: Yeah, but well when I tell people I'm going to "stick it in their ass" we tend to get lawsuits.

At this point, I decided I was in love.

me: Will you massage the area after the shot? You know, in a professional way...

Love of my life: Again, lawsuits.

Oh well, easy come, easy go.

The Sad, Sad tale of Slaggy

Most people who know me wouldn't leave a self-sustaining biosphere in my care, let alone an animal that needs to be fed and cleaned regularly. Natalie, my roommate, of all people, should know this.

It wasn't so bad at first. Jen, my other roommate, an obsessive, depressive, narcoleptic, yet exceptionally cuddly addition to our household, was staying in town to work, so she took the reigns for Slaggy's last days.

Jen left for her parent's on the 21st of December. Knowing my track record with fish, she dumped a few tablespoons of food into his bowl before she left.

I got to the apartment on the 27th, days after promising I would get Slaggy and take him to my parents house. My worst fears were confirmed. Slaggy lay lifeless on the decorative glass in his murky abode. sediment had settled around him. he looked moldy and gross. So I did what I normally do when I kill someone's beloved pet. I started looking for ways to hide the evidence. But first, I called Jen. Unusually, she picked up.

My fragile state of emotion was met with hysterical laughter.


Jen: "She kind of figured he'd probably die when she left him with us."

Me: "WHAT?"

Jen: Can I call her? This is going to be epic.

Me: NO! We're not going to tell her. We're going to replace Slaggy and she'll never know.


Suddenly, I realized that this might actually be kind of funny if done in the right way.


Me: No, I want to tell her.

Jen: That's not fair!

Me: Fine! We'll (heh-heh) three-way her.

Jen: I think grownups call them conference calls.

Me: I can't even keep a fish alive for six days. Calling me a "grownup" would be an extreme liberty. Plus, I love (heh-heh) three-ways.

Jen: ooookay...


So we figure out how to three-way Natalie. It took a minute.

She took the news well. Extremely well, in fact. However, my relief didn't last long when I realized that it was now my sole responsibility to dispose of Slaggy in a respectful, but permanent way. The toilet.

I went downstairs and looked in our silverware drawer to find a tool appropriate for scooping a dead fish out of a tall, cylandrical bowl. I grabbed a plastic fork and spoon, and a pair of chopsticks, for good measure.

I was ready.

Armed with my tools, I headed into Natalie's bathroom clutching the fish bowl. It smelled like death.

Here, I encountered my first problem. The bowl was tall, and narrower at the top than in the middle. I couldn't just dump it in the toilet because of the decorative glass, but once I gripped the spoon, my hand became too large to reach into the bowl without touching the filthy sides.

I decided I would dump the majority of the water into the sink before I tried to extract the fish. I tilted the bowl and the water began flowing out. Unfortunately, so did the glass at the bottom. Slaggy almost immediately became trapped underneath a pile of decorative glass bubbles. Now, i not only had to extract a fish, but I had to dig him out from under all the rubble.

I would not suffer alone, however. I called Natalie and Jen back and talked them through what I had done. They were quite amused at my trauma.

I tried poking him with the chopsticks. No luck, and it probably doomed me to the special place in hell for people who desecrate fish and other countries customs.

Eyes darting around the room, I finally found my out. A gallon sized plastic bag, perfect for snatching a dead, decaying fish from under a rocky tomb. I wrapped my hand and went for it. I was successful. Finally!

Holding little Slaggy, I noted that he did look a little on the anorexic side. My bad.

I held him over the toilet, and asked if there were any last words. There weren't. Just as I was saying my final goodbye, Slaggy slipped from my hand, and landed with a squish at the very top of the toilet bowl. He just stuck there, like one of those sticky hands you get from a vending machine and immediately get stuck to the ceiling of the fanciest room of your house.

I took the chopstick and poked him gently. He didn't budge. I considered skewering him on the fork, but I was already treading that line between neurotic and psychotic, and I didn't want to give my therapist any new ammunition.

Finally, Slaggy started flopping down the toilet bowl like a slinky on a staircase, head over tail, all the way to the water, where he landed with a soft "plish". I pushed the handle, down, down, down, in psuedo-slow motion. Slaggy disappeared down the drain. I communicated to my roommates, who were now most likely rolling on the floor in hysterics at my ineptitude, that the deed was done.

It was then that I tried some damage control. I offered to let Natalie have one of my twice-weekly therapy sessions. She declined. I then suggested that we go to the family therapist I see bi-monthly and discuss this incident. Again, she declined.

Still not satisfied, I went to the grocery store and found a ornate, flowery sympathy card. I checked out at the pharmacy, and explained to the tech that I had killed my roommates fish, but there were not any cards specifically for that, so I just picked that one. She looked at me like I was crazy and gave me one of those gentle smiles reserved for people who just aren't quite there.

I get those a lot.