I can't believe how fast time goes by. I mean, I know people say that all the time, but seriously. I graduated from nursing school 2 years ago.... From high school 15 years ago. I've been out of school as long as I was in school. (This reminds me - my reunion is coming up. Next month, I think. High School reunions are like viewings. You know you SHOULD go, out of respect. But you really don't WANT to go. You want to just hover in the back and not talk to anyone and see what everyone is wearing. And get drunk and try to pick up someone. I mean, uhm,. Nevermind.) It's so depressing. I don't feel old. Old-er. Older-ish. You know what I'm sayin. I'm so outdated. I don't know the new music groups, the new 'IT' actors... the newest slang. (Today I learned that 'drunk' can be used to describe clothing that isn't behaving. Like underwear that keeps crawling up your ass or socks that keep sliding into your shoes. I had no idea. Let's see how many times I can work that into this here blog, shall we?)

This is that time of year when I start to panic in thinking that Christmas is only right around the corner. I don't know why it makes me panic (most things do, I'm afraid), but for some odd reason the chaos of holiday gift-giving and parties and decorating... it's scary. I mean, it's not up there with spiders or passing out in the shower and having the paramedics find me naked, but it's on the list folks. Oh yeah, it is. I see the stuff sitting in that aisle at the Target and for some reason it makes me angry and petrified all at the same time. (Sorta like when I see Rosie O'Donnell on the TV)....or when my bra is all drunk and I feel the need to take it off in the middle of 695 and chuck it out the window. (OK, so maybe working drunk into the blog won't be as easy as I earlier predicted. So be it).

I always seem to think up good ideas for blogs when I'm no where near any writing utensils whatsoever. I have a notepad feature on my new blackberry (which sidebar: I hate. I'm not sure why people love their blackberries (blackberrys?) as I would like to throw mine into the sink and turn on the garbage disposal. I miss my first AT&T phone. It was black, flipped open. Had number keys on it. No touch screen or keyboard or any fancy crap on it. And when someone called - get this, it's so old school - you just OPENED it to answer. Imagine that. Now when someone rings me, I have to push A and * at the same time while simultaneously licking the ear piece. I dunno - something like that. It's complicated, trust me. I went off there, sorry. Let me get back on track) Notepad. Blackberry. Right. ..and I sometimes jot down thoughts I have for writing blogs in there. The difficulty lies in my ability to translate these notes later as the key subjects that seemed so clear to me when jotting it down is no longer in my vacant and dusty braincells.

"Anchor on a boat. Mermaid. Vagina"

Uhm, yeah. I'm not sure where I was going with that particular note. Maybe I had too much whiskey and decided to play Disney Scene-It. Again. I dunno. Maybe I wrote it down watching a raunchy episode of Maury Povich (which is actually a lie because i don't have cable TV and Maury - if you don't know - doesn't come on the 8 channels that are free. At least if he does, I haven't stumbled across his show the rare occasion I get to watch something other than Sid the Science Kid and the CCBC channel, which seems to just be a message board encouraging people to sign up for continuing ed. Maybe they're hurting for students....) I went off again, didn't I? See what happens. It's my adult onset ADD. And my lack of interest in entertaining you). I was trying to decipher my cell phone blog note. It doesn't make any sense really. Sounds like a plot to a really bad porno (I'm assuming). I certainly can't entertain a crowd with that. I can't even make it resemble anything in this here blog. This blog is drunk, yo! (I'm not sure if 'drunk' can be used for non-clothing items but I'm attempting it nonetheless. I will be cool, oh yes. I will be cool).

I've talked about my weird half-face condition in previous blogs on myspace, but I'm not sure I've mentioned it here. So - just to recap for you new folks... when I work out (run, jog, use the elliptical, chase a burglar, etc.) only the right half of my face gets red. And I don't mean one half gets MORE red than the other half, nor do I mean it's SORTA half... I'm talking draw a line down the center of my face and one side is red and sweaty (and is should be) and the other is as pale and dry as Betty White's , uhm, elbows. (I so wanted to go somewhere perverted there but I couldn't bring myself to disrespect the fabulous Betty White). Here's a photo I drew in paint for reference (since I know you don't believe me):



As if somehow having this horribly drawn crude image of what my face may or may not look like will somehow convince y'all that I'm not lying. Funny, no? Just look at that fabulous piece of visual perfection - there you have it folks. Art school at its finest. I mean, it took me about an hour just to figure out how to add the text. Luckily, I didn't bother drawing in my 3 chins or my old lady age spots - would've taken me even longer. But you get what I'm saying. At least I think you do. Or you can surmise what I'm saying by looking at that bad cartoon pic of my face and freakish thought of my half-red head at the gym. If it weren't bad enough that I look like a weirdo and everyone stares, I sometimes get headaches on the red side. I know, serious shit - right? But it's been going on for so long and I've baffled so many primary care physician's with it, that I finally just decided it was my super power. Super man had that laser vision and that whole 'blowing ice super cold breath' power (right?). Spiderman can shoot webs from his wrist and do other spider-like things (sue me, I'm a chick ok? I can tell you all of Gem and Holograms songs but i haven't yet mastered the talents of the Super League. Sue me). My super hero trademark will be the ability to sweat only on one side of my face. I doubt it will help me in my quest to rid the world of evil doers, but it's all I've got. Well, not all....

Because about a month ago, my pupils started not matching. Anasocoria it's called. Or something like that - I'm way too lazy to go look it up and I don't care if I spelled it right. But its something like that. It basically means that one pupil is dilated (or smaller) than the other. My anasocoria is inconsistent. And it's not always the red face side that dilates (as you might suspect). It's very bizarro. I always learned in nursing school (and all the material I could find online) that this means brain damage (ha! Proof I do, indeed, have brain damage. You were right Mom! Smoking all that weed *is* coming back to haunt me. Haha! Jokes on me). But, no seriously... I have to get an MRI and an MRA done of my brain to make sure (Neurologist's words, not mine) it's not a "brain tumor" or an "aneurysm". I guess time will tell. If you'd like to place bets, now would be the time to do it. I've got my $5 on "Guillan Barre' syndrome".

What? Is it poor choice to take your potential brain disorder and make it into a fun game with monetary rewards? It probably is. But I'm all for anything that makes getting bad news more bearable. It's why I think the doctor's should tell you that you have six months left to live, but they should do it in song and dance.

You think I'm mocking those with deadly disease. And I'm not. I'm simply saying that if you are on a limited schedule - you know, death wise - you should make the most of every moment.

No one gets me.

It's not like I said if I die tomorrow, they should make a made-for-TV miniseries staring that Hot Donna chick from that 70's show who people say I look like. (Her or Nancy McKeon. I've always had a semi-lesbian crush on her since The Facts of Life. She'll be a tad old, but they can use modern technology to CG out all her wrinkles. Plus, she's probably looking for work).

At any rate, I will be sure to let you guys know what it is when/if I find out. And if it's nothing (which I assume it will be) - then we can have a good laugh at my freakish appearance (it will be like middle school all over again!) and chalk this whole thing up to my hypochondria.

On that note, I will scurry off to bed. Sweet dreams, blog reader. Don't let the bedbugs bite. (I'm not sure how you will stop them, though - if they're actually in your bed. Good luck with that).