A Running Commentary

I'd like to take a bite out of that....

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 08:04:00 +0000

Lately, I've been dreaming of chicken. Hot, racy dreams of chicken. Well, hot, racy dreams of eating chicken. Not just chicken either. Hamburgers. I see a commercial for a Big Mac on the television and, instead of turning away in disgust, I feel myself drool just a little bit.

As a non-eater of land animals (please note this dietary choice has nothing to do with morals/ethics), this is probably something I should feel ashamed of or deny, but I do not. I proclaim loudly, "That looks delicious." Of course, in my apartment, the only ones to hear me are dog and cat. Dog, I am sure, agrees with me. He agrees with me about most things, with the obvious exception being the acceptability of dragging one's ass across various types of flooring/ground.

The cat simply judges. He is always judging.

Judging and waiting.

There is no question: one day, in the not so distant future, I will resume eating chickens and cows. It is just as certain as the inevitability that, within the next ten years, my tongue piercing will be a mere memory. It is their own fault though, really, for being so delicious.

Puzzle Pieces

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 05:51:00 +0000

Taking a deep breath in under a desert sky full of stars, feeling the sweet smoke from the hookah fill my lungs. The fire crackling and the hum of the generator the only sounds for miles.

No one can take this memory from me.

In 2011, I was a world traveller. I logged more than 60 hours on various planes and probably spent the equivalent amount of time waiting around airports and at border crossings.

I grew in unexpected ways this year - unexpected to me at least. While I experienced so many incredibly joyous things, I never quite managed to escape the underlying feeling of discontentment that has been plaguing me as of late. If someone were to ask me "are you happy?" Without hesitation, I would respond, "Yes. I am happy." But it is difficult to explain the almost overwhelming sense that I could be so much more happy - that there is something out there, something unnamed, that is just out of my grasp.

For me, the changing of the year holds no real significance, but I find my curiosity peeked for what this new year will bring. Will I spend more time in airports and on airplanes? Will I smoke shisha under the stars with a group of bedouins once more? Will I figure out just what it is that I seem to be so desperately missing?

Lessons Learned from Sister Act

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 07:55:00 +0000

Have you ever watched the movie Sister Act? Of course you have. How could you not have?

I watched it this evening in preparation for the bar. I am going to make this a regular thing.

It was magical.

Did you know, Internet, that the power to move people was in the nuns the whole time? Sister Mary Clarence did not make those nuns great. She just helped those nuns realize that there is greatness inside each and everyone of us.

For most nuns, I would assume that the aforementioned greatness is largely represented through the ability to sing gospel songs that have been modernized, but it is probably different for other people. For instance, for me, my greatness is in my ability to become a ridiculously great dancer after having consumed a few alcoholic beverages.

I am going to confess something to you Internet: I may have had a few drinks tonight. Or maybe I had five drinks. Whatever. That is unimportant. What is important is that I am going to leave my regular job to pursue a career in interpretive dance. My dances will all be interpretations of various colours of crayons that Crayola makes.

Shocking Pink is going to blow your mind(s).

Israel: It's hot there

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 04:37:00 +0000

In my head, I had always imagined all of Israel to look like something out of biblical times. You know, like this.

I thought there would be more sandals. Oh boy, did I ever think there would be more sandals. I did not see many sandals though. Actually, truth be told, I did not ever really pay attention to the footwear of others. In fact, I cannot recall having ever looked at the footwear of others while on the trip. And it turns out that people in Israel (or at least most people in Israel) stopped building houses out of piles of stones a long time ago.

My trip to the Middle Earth was full of Jesus, Bedouins and camels. Also, there was lots of wine.

I haggled for a hookah, covered myself in Dead Sea mud, poked a dead crab in the Sea of Galilee (it did not rise again, to spite of my best efforts) and saw lots of places where Jesus may or may not have visited/been born/been buried/ascended/etc.,.

Lessons learned: (1) adding "You mean, assuming that there was a Jesus.." to the end of what a tour guide is telling you is not necessarily a popular response and (2) there are some exceptionally attractive Jews in Jerusalem.

Out of office automated response

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 00:40:00 +0000

In Israel.

It is hot here.

Be back soon.

Pictures of my Stitches

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 00:09:00 +0000

It was 9:40 pm and I was right on schedule to by in bed by 10 pm. Beautiful. The only tasks I had to accomplish were (1) Walk the dog, (2) Do the dishes and (3) Take a shower (if I was feeling exceptionally ambitious).

"I will do the dishes first," I decided, as I was bound to lose interest in them once I walked the dog.

This proved to be a mistake.

I was halfway finished with my domestic engineering duties when the glass in my hand, for no apparent reason, broke in two. "Oh shit," I sighed, as I watched blood escape from a newly formed wound on my hand.

As I am wont to do with most injuries or medical issues, I took a picture and sent it to my nurse friends with the message, "Do you think this needs stitches?" And then waited patiently for an answer.

I decided that this was as good of a time as any to take the dog for his walk. He needed to go to the washroom and I needed to.. Well.. I needed to go to the hospital and didn't want to return to my apartment only to find a pile of dog shit on my dining room (a.k.a. bicycle room) floor. He had already pooped on the floor once that week (long work days + dogs with indigestion = bad things) and I was not keen on a repeat performance. So I slapped a generic bandage on that bad boy and headed outdoors.

People complain about Emergency Room wait times, and I can understand being moody and impatient when you are ill or a loved is ill, but, really, it is not so bad.

Sure... It was a a work night and I sat in the ER, waiting, for five hours before I was taken to into an examination room, but Flashdance was playing on the television! It was practically worth cutting my hand open for that alone.

I waited in the examination room for another half of an hour before one of the Emergency Room doctors was able to see me. She was friendly and we made small talk while she attended to my wound. "I am just going to tack that back together," she told me. We'd been discussing the possibility of glueing my wound instead of stitching (please refer to this post to see the awesomeness of glue when it comes to wounds), so I was unsure which option she had decided to go with. I mean, the English major in me knows that "tack" typically refers to a temporary stitch, but it also refers to the quality of being sticky... which super glue is.

Even after she had injected my hand with freezing, I was still not sure which route the lady doctor would take. Perhaps she had an exceptional bedside manner and wanted to ensure my visit to the hospital was as painless as possible, even if she was just going to glue shit back in place. She had mentioned that sometimes glue did not work so well on joints, so, for the sake of my career as a (future) hand model and my reputation as a badass, I was crossing my uninjured fingers for stitches. And it worked!

It was 3:30 am by the time I was bandaged up and ready to go. I decided that I would make a half-hearted attempt to be at work for 9 am the next morning, but that I would realistically opt to sleep in instead. I was going to get sympathy no matter what (how could I not when my hand was bandaged to such an extent that it looked as though I may have come into contact with a WMD?), so it really didn't matter when I showed up.

The doctor had told me to leave the bandage on until "tomorrow." While at work, I argued with co-workers over when tomorrow was. "You got your stitches at 3 am. This means tomorrow is Friday," they all said. But the more I thought about my bandaged hand, the itchier it got and the more determined I was that Lady Doctor's definition of "tomorrow" was probably flexible.

When I finally took the bandage off of my hand, I was disappointed. It looked pretty wimpy. I mean, yes, of course I was totally badass now with three stitches, but the street cred it gave me was comparable to that which Martha Stewart received when she went to Camp Cupcake. So I made a decision right then and there: from now on, when anybody asked, instead of telling them how I really injured my hand, I would say that I got cut in a knife fight.

Will they believe me? Maybe yes, maybe no (probably no). They do not need to know that "knife fight" is code for doing the dishes. It is none of their business. Plus, I have stitches now. I am badass. People who are badass don't care about stuff like whether or not someone really believes that they were in a knife fight.

New challenge: drunk jogging.

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 04:01:00 +0000

Out of boredom, I have decided to take up drunken jogging. As normal jogging has never really held an interest for me, I feel like drunken jogging will open up a whole new door.

"But Megan," I am sure you are saying to your computer screen, "you cannot possibly expect to stay drunk throughout your entire run." And that is a good point, dear Internet, but I actually can expect to stay drunk throughout my entire run, and I will tell you how: I will fill my camel pack with amaretto and coke.

Will I vomit? Absolutely. Will it make me a better runner? I am going to have to go with no on this one. But will it make running more interesting? Probably... if only because it will make it that much more difficult to actually do the running in the first place. Will I fall over? Will I veer from one side of the the sidewalk to the other? Who knows. Only time will tell. But I will share this all with you as I learn these answers for myself.

When grandma's a douche

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 02:45:00 +0000

My grandma and your grandma
Sitting by the fire
My grandma says to your grandma
"I'm gonna set your flag on fire"

Talkin' 'bout
Hey now
Hey now
Iko iko an nay
Jockomo feena ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

These are a few of the lyrics to the Belle Stars' song "Iko Iko." Every time I hear the song, I can't help but think, "Jeez... that is just uncalled for. I am not sure whose grandmother that is, but I hope that person has a talk with his or her grandmother to explain that it is just unnecessary to, unprovoked, lean over to someone and tell them that you are going to set their flag on fire."

Grandmas today... seriously.

Something to think about...

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 19:19:00 +0000

Every year, upon getting older, I make myself a list of things I hope to accomplish in that year of life. With a little under two months until my next birthday, I have started looking over my list in an attempt to see what else I can reasonably cross off.

If my calculations are correct, I could, in theory, put a line through another six of my goals. That would give me an 80% success rate for goals achieved in the 26th year of my life. I think that is pretty decent when you think about.

I have started thinking about goals for my upcoming year of life. As I will be turning twenty-seven, there will be twenty-seven of them. I am now accepting suggestions from the Internet.

Draft(s)

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 04:43:00 +0000

Upon turning 25, I created a list of 25 things that I wanted to accomplish in my 25th year.

I create these lists on a yearly basis.

When reviewing last year's list, I thought I had written down, "Learn to lap dance," and was somewhat relieved when I realized that it actually said "tap dance."

- 03/21/10

I am having a hard time with this.

I can't stop thinking about you.

But I do not feel entitled to the amount of grief I seem to be experiencing.

I can't seem to stop wishing bad things upon whoever it was who first introduced you to this vice, whether all of this blame is warranted or not.

I close my eyes and remember your face; I hear your voice.

It breaks my heart that this is what ended you.

- 06/21/10

I had a date on Monday.

We went bowling.

I have always heard that, when doing anything competitive on a date, the woman (or more feminine party) should let the man (or more masculine party) win. I do not care who you are, I am not going to purposely lose to you. Children and elderly be damned. Got a terminal illness? So what? But I digress...

I found myself ultimately relieved to lose both games because of my own inability to consistently roll a ball down a lane, knocking over 10 pins within two attempts.

- 2/23/11

I have always felt a need for simple reassurances.
When my grandparents died, all I wanted was for someone to say, "It's alright."
When I graduated from university and college, I wanted to hear, "You did a good job."
And last Wednesday, after receiving a note on the windshield of my car calling me all sorts of names (I had inadvertently parked too closely to someone on a hill, evidently leaving them with insufficient room to maneuver out of the spot in which they had parked), I just wanted someone to tell me that I wasn't an asshole.

- 04/03/11

I have serious issues when it comes to romantic love, but I fall in love platonically on a regular basis. Male, female, young or old, my platonic love knows no bounds.

- 04/30/11

In case I have never told you this before, I have had the long standing dream of becoming a professional cotton candy maker. Truth be told, I am not sure that anyone actually does this as a full-time job, but I feel like it is time that this changed.

- 05/19/11

"The key to being funny," I told him, "is not actually trying to make others laugh."

The look of confusion that graced his face told me that he did not understand what I meant.

"My main goal in life is to entertain myself, not you. When someone else laughs at something I have said I consider it an added bonus, but my primary goal is to make myself giggle."

- 05/21/11

Bleeding Orange

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 05:45:00 +0000

He was my political dream boat.

The man, the moustache, who inspired me to become passionate about politics. The man who helped me feel like my opinion mattered and that it was up to me to instigate the changes I wanted to see in the world.

It shouldn't have been a surprise and yet it was. He was beyond frail looking in his last public appearance. But his charisma and passion shone through, so it was easily overlooked.

Though I never met you, I will miss you, Jack. Your final words to the people of Canada have truly touched a nation and I hope that your success will not die with you, rather it will proceed full-steam ahead because of the way you inspired those around you right up until your dying breath.

I bake bread now

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 04:32:00 +0000

It's true. I do. I made that bread in the photo above. And it's not just any bread; it is fancy bread. Two loaves are sun-dried tomato and rosemary and the other two are caramelized onion.

I do not recall what inspired me to take on the challenge of becoming a baker of bread, but one day I said to myself, "Megan... It's time."

Bread making, I have found, is an art that takes time to perfect. Making the dough is relatively easy, but making the dough in such a way that it will rise properly and in the shape you intend it to look like post-oven is another story. And let us not even discuss the challenges of ensuring your bread is golden brown.

Needless to say, I have made probably about 20 loaves of bread in the last two weeks. That is not even an exaggeration. I have made at least two loaves of bread per day, every day.

"But Megan," I would imagine you are saying, "what ever are you doing with all of this bread?"

The answer is that I have been taking it to work and giving it to the people there. It makes me look like I am a great person when really I am just trying to pawn off my bread onto others. It is like I am an evil genius.

Reality Check

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 13:44:00 +0000

"I've gotten away with not shaving all week. I am not sure if I am going to break the cycle or stick to what's working," I said.

"You haven't gotten away with it all week. It's not working," she told me sternly.

Illusions shattered, I glanced down at my legs. Of course I could see the hair there, but do other people really pay that close attention when I am out and about?

Apparently, yes.

Incontinence Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 05:07:00 +0000

I paused, unsure what to do, as I made eye contact with the black and white beast.

A snake.

A snake in the stairwell of my apartment building.

What the fuck?!

As I have been an apartment dweller for nearly a year now, dog and I have a daily routine of going for walks so that he is able to evacuate his bladder and bowels in a location that is not my floor. This is why I found myself to be in that particular stairwell, at approximately 11 pm on a Sunday night, face-to-scaly-face with a two foot long snake that was very clearly not indigenous to the area.

The dog seemed confused. The snake seemed angry and frightened. I seemed questionably in keep control over my own bowels.

"Come on, Dog," I said, slowly backing away, "I like the other set of stairs better anyway."

Later, I would post a warm-hearted, cleverly composed (in sparkly pen no less!) note to the mailroom door, in the hopes that whoever owned the snake would keep better tabs on it in the future and I would not have to worry about needing an underwear change upon returning from walks with my own beast.

Don't worry.. even though this post is reflective, I'll probably bring up poop in my next post

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 03:06:00 +0000

I am an incredibly lucky person.

I choose to believe that this is all because of karma. I am an incredibly lucky person because I am an incredibly good person. Or at least I try to be.

I have experienced heart break, heart ache and hard times, but everyone has at least a run in or two with these things at some point in time in their lives. When something does not go my way or when I feel particularly hard done by, I try not to say, "Why me?" Instead, I say, "Why not me?"

Just because I try to be a good person and try to do good things does not mean that I should never have to face any hardships. Life would be boring without twists and turns and bumps. I would never truly be able to appreciate the luxury of happiness if I did not have a run in with discontent every once in a while.

And now I just wait for the money to roll in

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 05:05:00 +0000

One of my neighbours has this sign posted on her apartment door:

I decided that this was a good idea (time and paper saver!) and created a sign of my own:

In case you cannot read the above, it says: Willing to convert (religions or political affiliation) for cash.

But at least I was being productive, right?

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 04:51:00 +0000

As I was having a bit of a situation, I decided to take 1 mg of Lorazepam.

It worked. Crisis averted. Nerves restored.

I do not take medication, of any sort, without a great deal of debate.

Actually, this is not true. I take anti-diarrhea medication without a second thought. But most every other medication, I have at least two thoughts about, if not three.

So the Lorazepam did its job. My evening proceeded without incident and I fell asleep easily that night.

And then, when I woke up the next morning, I decided to check my email before heading off to work. As it turns out, apparently, in my Lorazepam induced calm, I submitted a proposal to the Tourism board requesting sponsorship for an event I am working on.

I hope that it was a good proposal because I have no idea what I included in it.

Why it is best to only keep one window open at a time

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sun, 29 May 2011 09:09:00 +0000

"Go check your hotmail account," the email read, "I sent a photo to it. It is of (insert name here of mutual acquaintance here). I'm so disgusted I might throw up. And I wasn't even married to the man."

It was morning and I was at work. I try to avoid checking my personal email when at work, unless I have a specific reason to check it, because I like to pretend to be professional like that.

I did not know exactly what the photo would show, but I knew that it was likely something that I did not want to see and that I would never be able to unsee it.

"Yuck," I typed in response, "I do not want to look at that picture. Especially not at work." And then I hit "send" and went about my business.

For about thirty seconds.

Which is when I noticed that there was still a message window open on my desktop. A "reply" message window. A "reply" message window that was replying to the email that I had just been reading.

"Uh oh," I said aloud. Because if the reply message window to my friend's email was still open.. that would mean that I had just replied to an email from someone else..

I immediately went to my "sent messages" folder, found out who I had sent the message to and began damage control.

"Oops, sorry about that. That email was not meant to go to you. But what you had sent me was great! Let's go with that. Thanks for everything you are doing and keep up the good work!"

You see, Interweb, when sending a damage control email out, it is important to acknowledge your mistake and then entirely change the subject of the message in order to make it seem like your faux-pas was not the primary motivation for sending another email.

I also made a ball out of rubber bands

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Thu, 19 May 2011 04:54:00 +0000

She may be 75, but I do not care; I will crush her.

At work, we are having a pedometer challenge. I am currently sitting comfortably in second place, behind one of our volunteers.

I would be number one still had I not gotten sick and then essentially been immobile for two weeks in India. But I did get sick, and I was stuck in a hotel room for the better part of two weeks. And now, I am 200,000 steps behind the 75-year-old stepping wonder.

"I will crush your spirits like the bones of an elderly woman suffering from osteoporosis," I tell her each time I see her. It's cool to say these kinds of things to her because we both know that, even though she is 49 years older than me, she could easily take me in a knife fight - and I would fight her with knife.

One of my favourite parts of my job is the interaction I have with coworkers and volunteers. I am in charge of communications, so, in theory, socializing while at work actually falls under my job description.

Other things I have done at work (both on and off the clock):

Played Hide-and-go-Seek with small children
Plastic wrapped a vehicle
Weeded
Moved furniture
Baked cookies
Shoveled snow
Transported myself from one end of the building to the other by doing walking lunges
Tied ribbon around plants
Created memos that read "You smell," and signed them using an electronic copy of my bosses signature
Playfully threatened the elderly
Started a fight club (so far, I am the only one in the fight because the first rule of fight club is don't talk about fight club and this kind of makes a membership drive tough)

Soon I will be able to add "made cotton candy" to that list. Yeah... That's right, Imma make cotton candy. You should be jealous of me for everything job related except how much I am actually paid.

Cake Farts

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 04 May 2011 05:19:00 +0000

"You know what I like the best?" the video starts. No, strange, pant-less woman on my computer screen, I do not know what you like the best. However, based on the name of your website, I feel comfortable guessing that it involves cakes and flatulence.

Why was I on a website that had anything to do with cake farts? Well, a coworker told me to go there and I am just very obedient... or stupid.

I could not watch the whole video, even though it was only one minute and fifteen seconds long. After all, the woman had no pants (or underwear!) on and was about to climb aboard a kitchen counter along side a cake. I had a sick feeling in my stomach regarding what would happen next.

I do not care how funny it may be, I do not want to see anyone farting on cakes. Cakes are made to be eaten, not farted on. In fact, I would argue that very few things are meant to be farted on - but cakes are, like, way, way up there on that list.

Bicycle Room

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Wed, 04 May 2011 00:43:00 +0000

I no longer have a bicycle room in my apartment.

Wait, what? I never told you about my bicycle room? Oh.

Well, I used to have a room in my apartment that contained just my bicycle and exercise bike. I called this room the bicycle room.

Why did I store nothing but bicycles (stationary and mobile) in this room? The answer is pretty simple: I just do not have that much stuff.

And so, I kept my bicycles in that room and, when bored, I would ride my bicycle around the room. It was an exceptionally short loop, but it helped pass the time. Eventually, I decided against indoor bicycling because the sound of tires on hardwood is kind of annoying.

But I digress.

The bicycle room is no more. Instead, it has been traded in for a quasi-dining room.

I have yet to move the table in (it is awaiting a light sanding in my parents' garage), but I have painted. And painting was the hard part. I also hung up a mirror that I had purchased for my grandparents several years ago. As they moved to a smaller house and needed to eliminate unnecessary items, they asked me if I would like it back. I, of course, said yes.

I have got to tell you, people I do not know on the Internet (and some people I do know), that my apartment is kind of getting pretty awesome. For a long time, it just did not feel like home. Instead, I opened my front door, hung up my coat/keys/purse/miscellaneous, glared at the dog and cat and then plopped down on my bed with my laptop to kill an hour or two before it was sleep time.

Now, when I return from work, I pause at my front door to mentally high-five myself for having such great decorating taste. Also, I tell myself that I really need to clean because I one day may have unexpected guests and therefore should ALWAYS expect guests.

Midnight Runs

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Mon, 02 May 2011 04:13:00 +0000

I grimaced as I felt the crunch beneath my shoe.

A snail.

A casualty of my late night jog.

The sidewalk glistened under the streetlights, still wet from the rain that had poured down upon them from morning until early evening.

I remember when I was much younger, after the rain, the smell of the juniper bushes in my grandparents' front yard. My grandfather would take great pride in stepping on the snails as they tried to escape the wetness all around them.

I do not enjoy crushing snails. In fact, the rest of my jog, I am especially mindful of where I step in an attempt to prolong the lives of many snails and worms who are out of their homes and sharing this evening with me.

Feminine Problems

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 04:04:00 +0000

When the pressure at work is high, my body responds by failing to menstruate. As you can imagine, this is awesome.

Failing to menstruate means that I get to experience even longer periods of bloating and entirely unnecessary hormone induced bouts of irritability. It is not unusual, when in the midst of one of these episodes, for me to burst into a room, uttering monosyllabic responses to any questions thrown my way and essentially proclaiming, "Hulk angry! Urghhhhhhh." Now, I do not rip my shirt off and turn green (although that would make for interesting conversation), but people sometimes do look at me like have become some sort of beast.

Stress brought on by an increased workload and my (relatively) recent trip to India caused some irregularity for me these last few months, but I am pleased to tell you now, Interweb, that my period is back on track. And I am naturally also thrilled by the return of my period induced breakouts.

Hooray!

Journey to India: Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 04:18:00 +0000

In case you were wondering, I did not burst anything pooping.

Actually, that may not be entirely true. An excerpt from my travel journal would probably indicate otherwise:

March 21, 2011

Today we went to Agra. This involved waking up early in the morning and catching a cab to Lemon Tree Hotel to pick up my aunt and uncle. However, I will not remember this day forever as the day I saw the Taj Mahal. Instead, I will remember it as the day I shit blood.

And the day I shook hands with a monkey.

Journey to India: part two

noreply@blogger.com (Megan) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 10:31:00 +0000

My last post was composed of what I had written in my journal while making my way from Toronto to Delhi. I had decided to keep a journal of my trip because it would make me appear deep and thoughtful to others. "Excuse me," I would say, "I must go write in my journal." Sounds intellectual, right?

Anyway, the thing about a journal is that it only makes sense to have one if you are actually doing things. I am not doing things. Essentially, my trip to India has involved a lot of naps and some mild traveller's diarrhea. At least I think it is traveller's diarrhea. It could just be a side effect from my anti-malaria medication. Either way, it is not the most captivating of material to write about. And yet I do. Each day I write in my journal using my favourite pen from home (which my sister is currently trying to steal from me, but I am on to her).

My entries largely talk about my poop or what I had for lunch. Some of them make note of the difference in standards of living between here and back home. If anything, I would say that a lot of people in India are utilitarian. They make use of the space and resources they have to the best of their ability. Of course, this is a huge generalization, but I like making huge generalizations when I have nothing else to write about.

On Sunday, it is Holi. It is my intention to get covered in dye and have a wonderful time. If diarrhea gets in the way of this plan, so help me, I will shit a brick (that is a poop joke).

My access to Internet will be unreliable at best in the coming week and a half, but when I return home I intend to post some pictures and tell you about all the ways this trip has changed my life. So far it hasn't actually really changed my life at all, and if it continues to be un-life changing, It is my intention just to lie and make something up.