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I will never be a motorcyclist.

April 4, 2011

So a while back, I went to my cousin’s house.  He lives in Palo Alto and is in 6th or 7th grade (currently), I really can’t be bothered to remember.

Anyways, he had this motorcycle thing except it had four wheels.  Also, it was colored red and yellow.  It had a top speed of what was probably 4.2 miles per hour.

I was so jealous.

It was basically that picture above, except without that thing in the back.

When I got to his house, he was just zooming around his backyard at 4.2 miles per hour.  I was shocked.  He didn’t have a helmet on.  But he didn’t fall, so it doesn’t really matter.

His little bro, who’s something like 7 right now, then switched places with my cousin that was on my bike, and then he started zooming around without a helmet.  I was utterly baffled by their seeming absence of any common sense, because seriously, if you fall off of that thing at full speed, you could probably break your head and hit the ground with such force that your family jewels cease to exist.

The difference is, no one will ever try to steal your FAMILY jewels.

Then my cousin, mistaking my he’s-totally-going-to-kill-himself-at-4.2-mph face as a I-want-to-ride-that-now face, asked me if I wanted to try it out.  Without a helmet.

Me being safety conscious me, and me having the level of maturity that I have, said Hell yes I wanna ride that thing.  Y’know, that thing that probably said “For ages 4-8” on it.

Anyways, I got on and totally had terrible control.  I repeatedly crashed it into their fence (and a concerned neighbor started throwing oranges at me) and almost ran over my brother, all while looking like a complete idiot, legs sticking out comically.  Then I lost balance and fell off.

You have to imagine all of this while listening to that music, right there.

Unfortunately, when I fell off, the bike didn’t stop moving.  Why? Because like actual motorcycles, the throttle was on the handlebar.

When I fell off, I was still holding onto the handlebar, and because I was holding it as I fell off, I dragged the throttle down to its max, which was probably somewhere around 4.3 miles per hour.  I was thus being dragged along by the freaking thing at 4.3 miles per hour.

When I finally gathered enough sense to just let go of the freaking handlebar, it almost immediately stopped, and so did I.  Unfortunately, my head did not get the memo and proceeded to smash itself on the seat of the bike.

This is pretty humiliating once you realize that this bike is designed for freaking kindergarteners. Which means that freaking kindergarteners make better motorcyclists than me.

Look at this smug little asshole. Just look at her.

And that is the story of why I will never be a motorcyclist.

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At least I wore a helmet.

April 2, 2011

Dunno if you know this, but I’ve been having abdominal pain for two (around there) years due to an issue that isn’t serious but kind of disgusting.  Too disgusting for this blog.  And if I deem something is disgusting, you better freakin’ believe it’s disgusting.

However, the type of pain is usually a dull, consistently there pain.  That annoys me to no end, but meh.  Around three weeks ago, I started feeling extreme nausea along with this pain.  I never threw up, though (not sure if this is a good thing).  Then it went away until last last Saturday.  Last last Saturday, my nausea-pain came back.  I tried to ignore it until Monday night, where it just spiked.  Also, my crap was black.  By black, I mean it was tar-colored, pitch black, ink black, black as the night when you don’t have a frickin’ flashlight.

I apologize for that mental image. Here's a kitten.

But I didn’t think that black stool was any problem, just something I ate.  But keep it in mind… or not if it’s too disturbing.

Anyways, my mom, disturbed by my excruciating pain, scheduled an appointment with my doctor the next morning (Tuesday morning).  I went and nothing extraordinary happened, except for the fact that she signed me up for 3 (3!) blood tests.  She told me I might have an ulcer, and it wasn’t the old problem.

So I went to the lab to get the tests done, and they took two vials of blood.  Then they handed me a cup.  Because apparently, my doctor also accidentally signed me up for a stool test, which meant I had to gather my shit and put it in a cup.

The brown color is actually from shit. My shit.

They poked a hole in my vein.  I hate holes in my veins.  Did I mention that?

So, because my doctor specifically mentioned that the test for ulcer-causing bacteria was a  blood test, we had to go back, have the doctor print out another form, and go back to the lab.

Then I got a hole poked in my other arm.  I hate holes in my veins.

I will never take heroin.

Then I went back to school to avoid missing math (because I just love math so much!).

The next day, I tried biking to school, as normal.  I live right smack dab in the middle of a hill, which I have to go over to go to school.  I felt pretty lightheaded after I finally got over the hill, but I thought it was normal, because it’s a pretty big hill.

But the lightheadedness didn’t go away.  It stayed and got worse.  My vision blurred.  I started swerving from side to side.  Fortunately, I had the sense to get off my bike and try walking it until I felt better.  Unfortunately, it did not get better.  I felt terrible at that point and could barely stand, so I just dropped my bike, dropped my backpack, and stood around.  Then, I passed out.

Of course, safety-conscious me was wearing a helmet, so when I woke up (after probably around two seconds… contrary to popular belief, passing out for more than five minutes gives you more than a 90% chance of having brain damage or something*) I found myself staring at the ground.  My helmet protrudes from the front of my head, so none of my face was touching the ground, except for my nose, because my nose is just huge.

I...have no idea.

Anyways, I started standing up and waving at passing cars, only to fall down again.   I probably looked like some crazy guy that found some kind of maniacal satisfaction in waving at cars and then falling down onto the rain-soaked ground.  A couple of cars, probably with drivers that thought exactly that, passed by without stopping.

Finally, a truck stopped by, and a concerned-looking, buff Hispanic dude tossed my bike into the back of his truck and drove me home.  If you’re reading this, thanks!

After my brush with [what was probably not even close to] death, I went to see the doctor, who then sent me to a specialist.  A specialist that specializes in the digestive system.  Exciting!

He really just talked and talked and mentioned he was going to have to stick a camera down my throat, and by the way, I’m going to sign you up for the stool test.

I got home after scheduling an appointment to have the camera stuck down my throat, which I was told is amazing fun by the specialist.  I don’t know, maybe I was just bothered by the fact that he enjoys sticking cameras down peoples’ throats, but I felt a sense of unease.  I really don’t know.

So anyways, I went home and scooped some of my shit into a cup.  Yay.

-Fin.

*So Eragon, Harry Potter, and pretty much all other heroes that have ever passed out would’ve woken up as blubbering idiots.

PS: I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I learned that black stool is caused by internal bleeding.  To be specific, the color is caused when your blood meets your digestive juices (yay!).

So that means I was digesting my own blood.  Yummy.

I’m going out into the sun in a moment.

Uh oh!

As of this moment, I’m fine.  I do have an ulcer, but it should be (unless my body is just completely incompetent) healing, and I’m taking 8 pills a day.

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Spiders freak me out

February 7, 2011

Seriously.  I was gonna go to sleep, and in the middle of the hallway was a huge freaking spider.  It was 3 inches (FREAKING HUGE TO ME, BIGGEST I’VE EVER SEEN, DON’T JUDGE, K?) and was just sitting there.  Because I really, really didn’t want a kiss of Death from this motherly (or any) spider (seriously, it has fangs.  I don’t want anything with fangs to kiss me), I decided to kill it.

I'm crying from terror while posting this.

So I went outside to get a broom because I wasn’t gonna go near that spider without a 4-foot pole/broom (WHAT IF IT WAS ONE OF THOSE FREAKY JUMPING SPIDERS?!) and come back.  It’s still there.  In the exact same spot.  I whack it with my broom, and it falls apart.  Literally.  Its body split into two, with legs sticking out.

Whimpering with terror, I took my broom and whacked it again, hoping it wasn’t one of those abominations that let loose Spider Hell on Earth when opened.  Thankfully, it wasn’t.  But its legs started falling off.  Which was gross.  So I swept it outside.

Anyways, like all the times I don’t post for a ridiculously long amount of time, I’ll give you a potpourri of my extremely exciting (and amusing!) life.

Last last weekend: A swim meet.
Actually, never mind.  You’re probably tired of hearing about my swim meets.  So let’s move on to something way more awesome.

SCHOOL SEASON FREAKING STARTED

Which is exciting because this is the first year I’m practicing on the team (albeit only the second year…) with Christian-san.  Our coach.  Who has a few distinctive characteristics and… uh… whatchamacallems.  Oddities? Habits? Anyways, Christian’s voice cracks more than mine (except when I’m imitating Shreyas’ mating call/battle cry, of course), which is odd because he’s what, 30? All I know about his age is that he’s older than me.  Which can be probably observed while looking at his beard that’s manliness is indescribable.  At least until his voice cracks.  At which point it all cancels out.

There is nothing that will ever cancel out this man's manliness.

Also, he always has a habit of telling exactly how many more push-ups he could’ve done in college than you.  And then demonstrates his Chuck Norris-ness (from now on, that’ll be my official scale of manliness) by asking you to do fifty push-ups with just your thumbs and giving no hints on how this is possible without breaking your thumbs (yeah, I did three when he told me to).

Apparently, when he’s vexed, he says in his signature cracking voice, “Girls, girls.”  As I have not personally observed this phenomenon actually happening, I cannot describe it.  No confirmation on whether or not says this to guys as well or whether he follows up with his “When I was in college…”

"...we got whacked by these if we didn't do our planks right."

However, as of this moment, our coach is recovering from a surgery, and I wish him all the best, even though his sets make us feel as if we should just break all of our bones for the purpose of never having to swim again.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Happy Chinese New Year, may you gain much money from your parents this year, and may the Atheist God grant you a bountiful harvest of A’s and A+’s this year!

Last weekend (basically, three days ago), my mom returned from my brother’s swim meet (he swims with Peak, ew), yelled at me, yelled at my brother, and yelled at my dad for sleeping.  She promptly yelled at me again to put on some different pants because those looked terrible, and would you kindly get in the freaking car.

Of course, I did so, not knowing what the hell what was going on.  She then drove to the nearest Chinese Bakery place, glared at me, and exited the car.  She came back with a large cake box (with a cake inside?! MAYBE, STAY TUNED – ER, READING – TO FIND OUT!) and tossed it into my lap, and yelled at me again.  She then drove like a drunken maniac (OK, not drunken, but definitely like a maniac) to someplace strange.  She yelled at me to keep an eye out for such-and-such an address.

When I saw said address, and told her so, she slammed the brakes and the cake box (AND THE CAKE?!) nearly flew from my lap into the windshield.  As she parallel parked at the curb without breaking anything, she told me to get the cake box, my jacket, and go to house said address.

My mom, my brother, and I walked up to the house and rang the doorbell.  A lady opened the door and smiled at us.  She beckoned us to come in, and I was suddenly afraid.  I thought of Hansel and Gretel and how they were nearly cooked, but my mom just rolled her eyes, pushed past me, took the cake box, and dropped the box on to the nearest chair.

An old lady (different from first lady) wiped her hands on her apron and smiled broadly at me.  She fired off several statements in Chinese rapidly, and I couldn’t understand it at all.  I heard “gao,” which means “tall,” but that was it.  As she was obviously talking about me, and she had said “tall,” I smiled back, and thanked her.  She stood there looking confused, with a “WTF is this boy smoking?” look on her face, then decided that I was suffering from hunger-hallucinations.

Wait. I think I saw an underwear troll back there.

She led me to a table laden with food (that was what, 5 feet away?), and motioned for me to sit down.  “Eat.”  First she had complimented my height, and now she was telling me to eat! I began liking this lady.  Over to my left, my mom was talking with someone.  I didn’t notice that someone until I looked over there and I realized my grandma, my uncle, and my aunt were all sitting there, firing away at their rapid Chinese talk.

I heard something about “SATs,” “not studying,” “only 2 hours of homework a night,” and my mom kept motioning at me.  So I just sat there looking at my fried chicken, wondering about Hansel and Gretel.  I fed some to my brother, and when he didn’t collapse or anything, I tucked in.

The first lady that opened the door sat down next to me and started talking to me in heavily accented English.  I deduced from her non-Chinese accent and her non-speaking of Chinese that she was Korean (there was also a Korean calender hanging in the corner).  She asked me about swimming and drawing and school and school and studying and school.

I probably would’ve enjoyed this visit more if I weren’t so utterly confused.  All throughout this visit, I was thinking, Who are these people? Do Koreans make fried chicken? Where’s the kimchi? I really like this fried chicken.  Is there more fried chicken?

You just knew I'd put this in here.

After I was done stuffing myself with fried chicken and thoughts of kimchi, I sat down in the middle of my mom’s little talk-group.  Some older man (not an OHAM, that’s for sure) had joined in the conversation.  They were now talking about the Beijing economy and house prices (if I understood correctly), while my grandma often contributed with a vigorous nod and a “_____ is always right.  Listen to him.  He knows everything.  He’s always right,” inserting the _______ with his name, which is NOT freaking Ching Chong Dim Sum, you racist bastards.  After a bit of that, my mom opened the cake box, which, surprise, had a cake inside.  She cut it up and we all ate it.

As we were leaving, my grandma reached out to me and slipped a hong bao (red envelope/bag) into my pocket.  The old lady with the apron who complimented my height and told me to eat also gave me a hong bao.  In the car, I opened both.  $10 from my grandma, and $20 from the other old lady! $30 for doing nothing but eat.  What a productive visit!

You know what I realized? I hate buttons.  Like those buttons that you push when you want something.  Because sometimes, they’re just non-responsive.

And I also sometimes really, really hate touch screens.  For the same reason.

Have a nice second/minute/hour/day/week/year/decade/century/millennium!

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All is not well

January 25, 2011

My mother took my trash can.  I’m convinced there is some kind of hidden message…

Anyways, I’ll update something longer… soon =O

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Life (2)

November 29, 2010

Have you seen The Social Network? You should. It was a pretty darn good movie. There were a couple words that I kept saying to myself, namely what a douchebag/asshole and another freaking orgy. Cause that’s what it was, basically. An endless parade of douchebaggery/assholeisticness with a coupla orgies sprinkled in for, I’m guessing, diversity. (Seeing as Michael Bay wasn’t directing this movie, using random explosions coming from nowhere wasn’t considered appropriate.)

Getting to the Life (2) part, my earbuds busted. Again. They were from Phillips, and the sound wasn’t great, but the actual buds lasted for a pretty long time. Well, longer than any skullcandies I’ve gotten. So, of course, I went to buy some skullcandies.

Where to? Target, duh! As I waited in the three-person line in the Electronics section, the cashier dude was having an amazingly long conversation with the person in front of me. She was 27, as her ID testified. And the cashier dude was probably around 50. He kept complimenting her age (whoa! You’re 27? I thought you were 26!) and just generally hitting on her (wow, you’re a woman! I bet you make a mean sammich), carefully ignoring the fact there was a 6 or 7 year old scowling at him while holding Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 and Spongebob.

After maybe 10 minutes of uncomfortably listening to the cashier spouting out sexual innuendo, I decided I was getting impatient and kind of disgusted. I cleared my throat. At which point cashier dude glared at me and passed a receipt (probably with his number on it) to customer woman. Customer woman mouthed “thanks” to me as she walked off while dialing a number on her cell, most likely the police to report sexual harassment.

I got my earbuds, and walked away as fast as I could without appearing as if I was walking away as fast as I could without appearing as if I was walking away as fast as I could. If that makes any sense at all, please see a psychiatrist. I plugged them in and was immediately amazed by the amazingness of the booming bass (booming compared to my other earbuds, which tells you how much they sucked).

I was just scrolling around settings on my iPod when I accidentally tapped on Music. I saw EQ, and I had no idea what it meant. So I tapped on it. And I saw a bunch of weird stuff, but Bass Booster caught my eye. Maybe because of the word Booster. Or maybe Bass. Anyways, I tapped on it (I keep trying to type “click” for some reason) and BAM. There was thunder rolling around in my earbuds and my eyes swelled to the size of tomatoes as I got high off of music. At which point, inexplicably, my head exploded.

After I got my head stitched back together, nothing really interesting happened. Until last Friday.

Although probably a more successful stitching.

My brother. He’ a strange ‘un. Even stranger than me. Yes, that’s possible. My brother participated in his school’s musical, Honk! Jr. Or something like that. I really can’t be bothered to remember. Anyways, if I haven’t told you yet, my brother’s voice is not one you really want to hear singing. He’s got the voice of Justin Beiber except it requires more autotuning than humanly (or computerly) possible. “Well, that’s not that bad,” you say. “After all, unless he’s got a major part, which wouldn’t be possible, you wouldn’t even hear his voice over everyone else.” Yeah, well, lucky you. That’s most people. Not so for the people living in this house. ‘Cause it turns out my brother is extremely enthusiastic when it comes to singing, and enjoys practicing 24/7. Yeah, lucky I got those in-ears, eh?

So, last Friday was the musical thing. It was marginally more exciting than watching paint peel, probably helped by the fact that those sneaky producer people put in some very sneaky puns. That involved swearing. Examples? “Don’t be a dumbcluck!” “And don’t fall on your asssssssssssssssk your mother.”

Oh, and did I mention the fact that my brother’s part required makeup? Yeah, he smeared on blush and eye-glitter and hair gel. Normally, I don’t think most guys aren’t too enthusiastic about putting on tons of makeup, but my brother, as I previously mentioned, is a strange ‘un. He was so enthusiastic about putting makeup on that after his second show on Saturday, when we went out to eat, he didn’t wash anything off. In fact, he actually raided my mother’s purse and put on a bunch of lipstick. Yes, you read that right. No, I am not lying. You should’ve seen how fast the waiter’s smile slid off her face when she realized that there was a little kid wearing lipstick and eye-glitter and whatever the hell he was wearing.

Last weekend, there was also a meet. As luck goes, I’ve got it pretty bad, and that was pretty much the one weekend this entire month it rained. I really think the Atheist God has it in for me.

This has nothing to do with anything, but I thought it was FREAKIN AWESOME.

If you swim for DACA, you have a set number of mandatory volunteer hours you have to do at a meet. Once again, if that made any sense to you, please see a psychiatrist. Seriously, if you don’t go, you have to pay. So you’re paying to volunteer, but if you don’t volunteer, you have to pay. Basically, you’re paying to either not pay any more or pay even more. My head hurts and the universe is collapsing. Damn, I hate it when that happens.

BACK ON TOPIC. So I volunteered in the morning. I’ve seen some pretty strange stuff in my life so far (see above for example of guy hitting on gal half his age), and yet I still found the swim meet pretty strange. Morning session is for 10 year old’s and under, by the way. One kid leaped on top of the starting block, bent over in the traditional track start position, and stared at through the gap in between his [two] legs. Yeah. And if that wasn’t weird enough, he smiled at me. Later that morning, there was a group of kids from some swim group named LO (Ladera Oaks) or something standing around waiting for their heats. Instead of telling jokes or smacking each other, they started massaging each other.

Yeah, swimmers are weird.

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Life

November 3, 2010

You: So, how’s life?
Me: Well, it’s not bad.
You: What’s been going on?
Me: Well, since you seem interested in what’s going on, I’ll enlighten you.

On Thursday, my mom was driving me home from swim practice.  She told me I had a doctor’s appointment on Friday.  I guess a doctor’s appointment isn’t that bad, but it’s kind of depressing when you don’t know anything on your own Life Schedule.

On Friday, she informed me that I wasn’t going to the doctor I’d had since… forever.  We were switching doctors.  Why? My old doctor was too expensive, DUH.

So, we got there.  The reception room thing was the size of my room (which is tiny).  I sat down and listened to my iPod for approximately… oh, half an hour, while about fifty people rushed in and out.  And then my brother and I were called in (while my brother screamed for the sugar-free lollipops that only ever come from doctors).

The nurse asked who would go first, and of course, my brother screamed “ME!” in a way that was annoyingly reminiscent of Donkey.  The nurse then took a tiny little paper cup, scrawled a “P” on the bottom, and handed it to me expectantly.  I looked blankly at my mom, and then asked, “Uh, what do I do?” The nurse looked at me strangely as if this was the most retarded question she’d ever heard in all her years working at the hospital, and said, “Pee in it.  Not to the top, of course,” and laughed as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever said in all her years working at the hospital (it probably was).

I went to the bathroom, which was an entire thirty feet away, wondering what would happen if I couldn’t squeeze any bodily juices out, because I don’t exactly drink a lot of water.  I then imagined having a tube stuck into my bladder to suck em out forcefully, and decided I’d better squeeze em out.

After doing my business in a cup, I walked out, holding the cup as far away from my body as possible.  I tried not to spill it, which wouldn’t have been too great, seeing as I was wearing a white shirt that you probably couldn’t get urine out of.  A doctor rushed past me, and took a look at me and my cup.  He wrinkled his nose, and muttered “crack.”  NO YOU DOCTOR COKEHEAD.

When I got back to the room (with some close calls of splashing piss all over the place), the nurse rolled her eyes at me and told me to put the cup down next to the sink.  I did.

I asked her what the pee was for, and she just smiled mysteriously at me.  I took this to mean “You look like a crackhead, so we’re gonna check for drugs in your piss.”

So that’s what I thought, until she scrawled an “A” on the bottom of another cup, and handed it to my brother.  “Same treatment, honey.”  Then she laughed again.  Apparently my brother looks like a crackhead too.  Even though he’s eight.

When he and my mom leaves (because he needs help peeing, apparently), the nurse hands me some headphones.  She said, “Raise your hand when you hear a beep.”  However, they were too small.  I pointed this out to her, so she extended them.  And she handed them to me again.

I put them on, and wondered how I was supposed to raise my hand while using my hands to keep my headphones over my ears, as opposed to over my cheeks.

I finished, and watched as she scribbled some stuff on a piece of paper.  And when she finished scribbling, she stared at me.  Then my brother and mom came back with a cup full of putrid smelling lemonade.  The nurse then led us to another room.  “Strip down to your underwear.  The doctor will be here soon,” she said curtly, probably thinking how telling kids to pee in a cup was an excellent way to spend her life.

Usually, undressing in front of your mother is not considered a desirable activity.  However, this time, it was still undesirable.  I sat 85% naked in a cold chair, shivering, in a cold room, waiting for the doctor to come so I could put on some clothes.  I waited like this for about fifteen minutes.  While my mother read aloud the dangers of having underage sex.  Wow, I can totally transform this into an FML.

When the doctor came in, she was nothing like I expected.  My mom said she was white, but I thought my mom was a little mixed up because her last name was Chinese.  But she was white.  And at most 45.  And yet, she looked extremely tired and bored and older.

She talked with my mom about vaccines and stuff, and called me by my brother’s name.  And then she told my brother to lie down on the bed thing.  She reached into his underwear, and said, “We just have to count to two.”  She laughed.  My mom laughed.  My brother laughed.  I looked towards the door awkwardly.  Then she told me to get up on the bed thing.  She reached into my boxers and said, “Everything’s normal,” while I tried to wish I could spontaneously teleport somewhere else.

Then she said something about flu shots.

We got flu shots.  Then we left.  Yay.

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Swim Meets

October 10, 2010

If you don’t know, swim meets aren’t exactly the thing that makes you frolic through meadows tossing daffodils and daisies and other assorted flowers around.  However, interesting things tend to happen.

Here’s some suspenseful music.  Why? Just because.  And to make you wonder exactly what was so interesting at the swim meet.

Did that give you goosebumps? Not really? What? Crap.

Anyways, this swim meet, for some reason, was one session long.  Which means it started in the morning, and ended in the morn – oh, wait, no.  It ended at 1:30.

I feel like I’ve told you this before, but I’m not a morning person.  Which means waking up at the buttcrack of dawn to race my ass off is not really my thing.

Just like typing an essay is not really a monkey's thing.

But guess what I did? I woke up at the buttcrack of dawn to race my ass off.

I put down my chair in an inconspicuous spot, hoping that no one would see me and punch me and steal my iPod and the pitifully small amount of money I had brought to buy food.  And then I left to go warm up and stuff.

When I came back, lo and behold, a girl put her chair right next to mine! Well, that’s not really that weird, you’re probably thinking.  After all, Mr. X. is so devilishly handsome that he probably attracts chicks like flies to honey.  Suspicious of her unnaturally large (and probably botox-enhanced) smile, I quickly checked backpack to see if my money and iPod were still there.  Because no one should be smiling in the freaking morning.  Unfortunately for this extremely exciting plotline (insert more suspenseful music), and fortunately for me, they were still there.

Still suspicious, I hid my money in one of my socks and stuck it in my backpack.  I then put my iPod in the legs of my jeans (remember, I’m wearing nothing but a Speedo and a parka, so I wouldn’t be wearing those).  And walked away to… walk.  Because there’s not much to do at a swim meet.  Besides swim.  And play pranks.

I would've done this, but I didn't have any bananas.

So I do a lap around the pool, and I come back to my chair.  And, lo and behold, there were two smiling girls! If they looked identical, I probably would have assumed one did some mitosis or something, but they looked different.  So one probably did mitosis and then the other got treated with radiation, and ended up looking different.

Frowning with suspicion, I looked through my stuff to make sure my iPod and money were still there.  They still were.  One girl giggled.  I frowned again.  I then left to do another lap walking around the pool.

When I came back, there were not two girls, not three, but four smiling girls. They were definitely going through exponential growth or something.  I glanced at my backpack and made sure it looked exactly the same as when I had left.  Now, they were in some weird half-circle.  You know, like a circle around a campfire, except only half of that? Oh, and I seemed to be the campfire.

I dragged my chair a little to the side, so I wouldn’t be in the exact center.  The girls giggled with each other.  I sat down.  They giggled harder.  I closed my eyes and went to my happy place, and when I opened them, there were eight freaking girls sitting around me.  They were all giggling and whispering to each other, and I was feeling kind of weird.

So I moved my chair outside of their half-circle.

Sorry, nothing happened.

After my encounter with the rabid laughing prepubescent girls, I went for another lap around the pool, flaunting my four-pack of flab.  Unfortunately, this did not attract any girls I could ask out without being arrested for sexual harassment.

Not pictured: Patrick's abs.

Unfortunately.

I’d tell you about my events and how I did, but that’s kind of boring.

BUT, the warm up before one of my events was not boring.  In fact, it was kind of awkward.

I was just happily swimming backstroke when some little girl (too many girls in this post) decided to switch lanes and swam right across me, right on top of me.  And grabbed my junk in the process.

Note to guys: Don’t wear Speedo Endurance suits to meets if you’re gonna be doing laps around the pool.  Why? Because Speed Endurance suits aren’t made for the “holy-shit-this-thing-is-so-soft-and-awesome-feeling” emotion, but are made for the “holy-shit-this-thing-is-really-rough-feeling-but-lasts-years” emotion.

Which means?

Which means that after a couple of laps around the pool, the damn thing started chafing my inner thighs.  And I got a lovely mark that looked like I recently gained, then lost, then gained, and then lost 150 pounds.

There’s not much else to say about my meet, so I’ll move on to something that will break your heart.

Once the guy is done explaining what’s going on, skip right ahead to 1:00 and prepare to have your heart broken.

That’s the saddest looking dog I have ever seen in my life.

Have fun sleeping.