The Pistachio Is Lucifer’s Seed

 

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Wonderful Pistachios? I must of got the Woeful brand by mistake.

Food, it’s one of the basic needs and functions that we’re built for in this life; to consume, to replenish. Early on and so I’m told, since my memory doesn’t fall anywhere prior to being four-years-old, I didn’t eat most foods packed in my school lunches. Some salted and sugar snacks like pretzel sticks, crackers and Fruit Roll-Ups were secondary to my mother. The fruits that did not make it into my digestive system were her main concern. For the rest of elementary, lunch was comprised of meats, grains, and gummy treats. A strawberry’s natural sweetness was replaced by a Fruit Roll-Ups’ artificial sweetness; you could taste and equally smell the sugar-infused difference.

There were no excuses for my not liking nature’s colorful candies in disguise. Lunch boxes lacked the high-ended freezing and heating capabilities that are available today. I didn’t notice half the time because of the art print on the flap of mine. No, not even the lunch box could hold the fault in my poor palette. It was simple: whatever healthy fruit of choice was eaten, not one was found to be pleasing. Again, this is according to my mom and teachers she says who have noticed the habit of not eating close to none of my lunch. Often discussed were the healthy portions meant to be eaten, as if that was all that mattered in a lunch. To this day, I never hear the end of this, especially since I’m older and can actually describe foods by their textures and tastes. My mother refuses to accept this change just as I refused what she gave me to eat. There’s no need for regret mom, I came around. Now I know why I still don’t like fruit very much.

Before people start thinking I’m nuts, the title stands true. What I ate, or was exposed to, was trial and error. I eat one food over another not because I won’t eat it, but because it’s the better alternative. So was my thinking. I know that fruit snacks aren’t actual fruit, but the packaging is kind enough to say otherwise. I didn’t eat certain foods because I couldn’t match the feeling it gave me to eat it. All I knew was that it had an unexpected, sometimes overpowering taste I didn’t want my tongue or stomach to handle. I blame this sensation of dislike on the other good eats I could have had at an earlier age. I limited myself to three food groups, dairy, grains, and meat. Fruits were less to come by than vegetables, but both had their fair share of disappointment. Deciding not to eat something only because you don’t like it and nothing more is within reason but without explanation. Saying I don’t like strawberries because their too sweet and seedy gets the point across. That doesn’t mean I discount the benefits of the fruit, it just means I would much rather an apple’s sweetness over that of a strawberry. The foods I chose not to eat were out of paranoia that they would all share a similar disgusting taste. Trying more food has made up for lost time, all except for the one food I can’t eat: the pistachio.

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This is how I felt on the inside.

I can’t tell you why I decided all of sudden to have a try of this nut. It might have had something to do with their cheerful advertising, a party-in-your-mouth promise from what I gather. Late one night I had my first pistachio, an hour later, Lucifer’s seed was planted. My tongue was tingling and had a chalky after-taste. My voice started to lose its cadence and all attempts to speak sounded hollow yet as if there were still signs of phlegm when there were none. My throat had no discomfort but I could tell it was easier to breathe through my nose instead. My stomach cramped and my upper back felt like it was being pinched by a giant. Needless to say, I was having an allergic reaction, the first of any, to this green twerp of a seed.

With the feeling that knocks you back, I couldn’t believe I found my kryptonite. Usually allergies are discovered at an early age and in some cases allow immunity to the allergen over time. I was not so fortunate. To my knowledge, there are no other nuts that have given me trouble, so why the pistachio? Allergies to peanuts are the most common allergy and that comes as no surprise. The specific class of nuts I could also be allergic to belong to, like the pistachio, to the tree nut family. Cashews aren’t something I remember eating, but I must have been offered it at one point. Almonds I know I’ve eaten but only on some restaurant dish I couldn’t imagine needing as much or in cereal or oatmeal. Almond soy milk is another variation I’ve eaten as well and there hasn’t been any adverse reactions. Cross-contact between peanuts that I wouldn’t otherwise be allergic to could become an allergy, but I won’t be chancing that.

It sucked having to sleep through that nausea-filled night. Moving around felt stiff by morning, but much better than that first hour. In hindsight, I probably should have went to the hospital since it was in no way an overreaction. With all seriousness, see a hospital. The times I chose not to try new foods might have been my safeguard, but had I never eaten anything before I wouldn’t know if I was allergic for certain. I don’t know how susceptible adults are to allergies when compared to children but I do know one thing, allergies are met with apologies. You get your feelings hurt but in the end you get the closure you deserve. Now if only I could forgive pistachios…

This Is The Story of A Girl

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“True story.”

Who cried a river and drowned the whole world… well, something close to it. To spare you the clichéd, Nine Days reference, a more pressing matter occurred to me recently, more like a whole months worth, and I’ve noticed a few things. There is a specimen who I don’t objectify in anyway and do everything to the best of my ability to remain gallant towards, but for the life of me, I can’t understand the Female. Her language broadcasts mixed messages, her subtle drops of hints in the form of alluring head tilts and eye movements leave me transfixed, and to sum it all up, everything auditory that expels from her pillow-textured lips, whether sensible or esoteric, everyone finds either enlightening or enchanting, or in worse case scenarios, both.

Now being the someone here that isn’t female or hasn’t any fortune interacting with them beyond the realm of the quote unquote “friend zone,” I’m starting to understand why these things are for men, the ones with good, thoughtful intentions mind you, and for the blindsided, less mindful men as well. Please listen to this if you will:

Material Girls Are Only Fabric Deep

“The one but not the only.”

It’s a given girls like fashion on some level and put effort into the clothes they want to wear. When it becomes the only thing worth living by and talking about 70% of the time upon opening a mouth however, that’s when I start loosing my mind. These girls find satisfaction in the things they own, a false sense of pride, and feel overtly important because of it. That’s not to say you can’t have confidence with the outfits you don, but don’t oversell it with compliments you boast for yourself that others could have given to you without asking. Make it a preference ladies to feel good and know that you do without having to tell everyone that looks your way you already know. It’s an extreme extroversion (at least for the guys who see past the glamour).

Glasses Are For Looks Not Smarts

“Check out the brains on her.”

I can’t tell you how many times people in the past have looked to me for all things unknown to them. Of course, over time I’ve gained more, if not enough, knowledge for others to understand that I know that I know nothing (a Socratic musing for you all). It’s no guarantee that glasses make you smarter, if anything, they’re a sign of ignorance, in my case anyway (I would read under my covers in the dark as a kid, sometimes even without a flashlight. A part of me wanted to be a nocturnal Batman at the time and I found out that Batman couldn’t see in the dark and only bats could, therefore I went visually impaired at the age of 12. That is not smart!) For the girls who wear them, but find it as a welcoming nod to the guys who expect a smart and saucy lady, will be half disappointed. Be smart, don’t look smart.

Laughter is the Best Medicine Only When You’re Sick

“I know just the type of girl.”

Do girls do this on purpose? They’ll hear others speaking, take their innocent words and make euphemisms out of them. Sometimes it could be words that have no significant humor behind them, words like “little people,” which I understand can be taken out of context, but it doesn’t make it funny or right. When girls force a laugh or make a fake laugh to sound cute and clever, it comes off as annoying and unattractive (again, for the men who look for a functioning, aware human being without a drowning personality). The girls who laugh at everything or make jokes out of nothing might gain attention, but never any positive attention, especially when it’s all to amuse yourself, even if no one joining in knows it (the clueless, hapless victims of her supposed charm).

Stupid Isn’t Saucy

“No one wants to be the ditz with just the you-know-what.”

A quick story about a girl, her name shall remain confidential, but let’s call her Ms. Potato. Ms. Potato would exclaim herself to be “not smart enough” and act as such whenever presented with, in her words, “too hard” a task. The guy next to me, we’ll call him Dispenser, would agree in the hopes of finding common ground with Ms. Potato. I’m never one to judge but, if you play off the fact that you’re dumb, us guys who do this ridiculous thing called thinking, will start to believe you. Ms. Potato, as far as her definition of herself goes, leads me to believe an actual potato has more brain cells than her; I mean come on, her namesake should say otherwise! As for Dispenser, he’s relinquishing those IQ points just to match her own. Don’t act stupid to be saucy, after all, an act’s an act, and whether you meant it or not, it’s deceptive. If you’re not confident in your intelligence, don’t complain about it or use it as a factor in getting boys to date you either. Use your options and resources to become more knowledgeable, more worldly.

Liking Things For the Wrong Reasons

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“Looking in the wrong places means less time for you and more time wasted.”

If you’re a girl who likes things to be accepted as normal, I love to break it to you, but no buts; it’s not normal. If someone is asking you for your opinion, it’s your opinion, don’t be obligated to appease others because they weren’t expecting you to disagree. It’s not your fault if they aren’t understanding of your reasoning. Girls who latch on like leeches to acquire a wholeness with another, won’t. They’ll suck out all the blood before it happens. The ones that like certain things that aren’t necessarily good, but others find okay with, leads to peer pressure and decisions that are made hesitantly, or worse, without hesitation. It puts people in this “anything goes” mindset about you, which couldn’t be farther from true; people have their limits and, I hope, stick by them cautiously. Stay your own person, avoid the manipulation everyone else sees fit, and never change for another’s acceptance or because someone tells you to unless you or others start to notice a negative state (they only want the best for you; they’re there to help you cope, not manipulate you).

So ladies, I’ve got nothing against you. I think you’re smarter than the average man and for many good reasons. It also goes hand in hand with guys who see nothing wrong with this behavior as well. Though there still are women out there that aren’t aware or who are of their doings that lack such propriety. If you know any lady friends who need the advice to become a better, more down-to-earth girl, share this with them. Let me know if you noticed anything girls do I missed or didn’t touch on too. Grrrl Power! Sorry, I’ve got Riot grrrl on the mind.

College: Week 1 – Survival

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“How many stock photos are sincere you ask? I don’t know either.”

College begins the time of your life, in a bout of four years or so. As highschool prepared you for the flashes of life before your eyes, college will be there too… with strobe lights. Forgive the hyperboles, but that was my thinking minus getting my feet wet. College at its basic necessity becomes a rehashed reflection of highschool with major differences. For starters, no more miscreants, rascals, deviants, and ne’er-do-wells (that has yet to be decided), formally speaking. Not that I don’t believe in the like, I just prefer not to find them to be true.

My glass is half-filled, so if you got something, you got it! It’s a level up sure and the expectations are of the same caliber upon graduating highschool. What is asked of you is fairly simple: follow your schedule; time, place, and anything in between. If any complications should arise, address them and the sort. Life hits you fast and they might be soft blows but it doesn’t matter. Time flies and it’s up to you to make those moments count, depending on that term paper or public outings, you choose. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, ride that bucking bronco when you can!

Here I am, holding onto the reins. My first week of college was a bit unceremonious. You go to your first class, walk the halls and stairs with brisk, mellow steps, enter the classroom, and sit where you like. Normally, that’s how it’s done; you go in with no expectation yet burrowed deep in the back of your mind, the gears are turning for the outcomes only possible to you because you’re worried about yourself, and from what you can see, everyone must be thinking about their own skin. The teacher takes role which makes me cringe slightly, but when you’ve been conditioned by the repetition, you muster up the courage to say you’re here instead of having a modest hand be your form of confirmation.

Then they give you the run down, the functions of the class, assignments and his or her protocol and preference. That’s fine, I like to hear a person’s end of the conversation before I deliberate my thoughts. The day progresses, time runs its fast course, and before you know it, class is dismissed until tomorrow. College so far is a great change of pace. You take a class they offer at specific times and at the end of it, you’re free the rest of the day; that I can get around! Another thing, nothing is a mystery. You’re given a syllabus with all the assignments and according due dates to keep at it or get ahead. The only worry may be the onslaught of new faces, worrying over who’s name belongs to who’s face.

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“The campus is the first and largest. Translated: it’s hard to get around.”

Some friendships last longer than others, in reference to how often friends live together or interact, but for the time, it’s good to have a readily available affable ability. An affability if you will (how’s that for a portmanteau?) Getting that experience of talking to someone could mean talking to that same someone long after school is done and applied with. Other times it’s short lived, but think of it this way. You gave that person an attention sans judgment and filled with kindness that for some reason is considered a rarity. If you ask me, having a friend whether short-lived or life-lasting, is worth while and special to encounter. It gives that person the confidence to talk to more people in the hopes that they too can find a friend for solace and meaningful concern in. On a related note, a few familiar faces from familiar places came my way. Even new people I met had a touch of reminiscence to older friends not seen; those people bore names that hit home which is wonderful! Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I get to English early, which leaves half an hour at the most on the back burner. During that time, I talk to Sam (his class adjoins mine) who agrees that it’s good to have someone to talk too. English, I can also see, shares the same philosophy.

To make everyone more comfortable and approachable, group work was introduced. Our teacher is relaxed but on point and she does enjoy her English teaching; it’s nice to witness and inspires you to find something you love to do yourself. She generalized the importance of group activities, sharing each others frame of mind that we could try on for size. In one partnership, I talked to a girl named Emely (yes, with two E’s), an interesting variant of the name and another reminiscent moment for me. On the second day, we got into groups decided by a personal number distributed by the professor. This time it was all girls. Three! It’s the magic number! Sorry School House Rock… We discussed a list of situations and how they would be handled in the form of writing, by genre, purpose, rhetoric and social context, for instance. English is the more sociable of the two classes I take. Psychology, well… we were left to think.

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“My binder’s artwork for Psychology. No one asked about it sadly.”

After role, you think everyone would ease and settle but contrary to thought, not quite. Part of it might be because of our professor’s accent of either Japanese, Chinese or Korean descent. Of those countries she gave examples for collectivistic cultures, a form of thinking shared by a society as a whole, they are still indecisive choices for her nationality. She’s not hard to understand, it just takes her a fair amount of time to translate the words in her native tongue into English for her to speak. Until we can hear a complete sentence, it stays quiet during a good portion of the class and unless curiosity strikes one of us, I swear you can hear the grass growing outside. What a bummer though. I bet if it’s anything like for the Spanish, she probably dreams in her country’s language. Sounds worse if you’re bilingual, and worse than that if you’re not (I’ve had weird dreams).

Anyway, Psychology is an interesting science that calls for your assumptions to reflect upon. Social science is my kind of science since it isn’t math oriented, I hope, and it talks more about actions and reactions and the explanations for them. Going behind the reasons why, critically thinking on what is what and what things are and why they are what they are is like math. We hope to find the right definitions and answers that can be more personal than a number (I say “can” because someone out there might have a case of numerophobia). The more you know.

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“Time to hit the books!” ¹

So far, the college experience is new but also the same before me. The joy of getting to class early means not having to wait outside with other wandering eyes, accompanied by small chatter between close mouths or feet, taps and clicks on phones or laptops, or unwanted eye contact in some instances. My classes happen to be next door to each other so there’s a plus. It took a few minutes to realize a previous class occupying the rooms had left the door open but the lights off before leaving. Out of complete chance, I twisted the door knob and by surprise do I find an open door I thought was close. From now on, I’ll be using them freely at the earliest convenience, granted it becomes a running gag we start to notice and not a ploy we fall victim to (Note to self, check all the door knobs).

Other than that, the mix of new and old friends will keep me balanced and more open-minded than I have been. I’ve actually been able to open up to strangers, on and by the bench, outside, and in the halls a couple times now. They’ve also already caught wind of my mellow and meticulous mannerisms as well as my love for graphic T-shirts! This college thing seems to be going my way. I like it mostly. Now I’ll leave you to compare this time in my life and possibly yours with the fine words of Arthur Ashe: “Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”


¹ Brent Wiggins does not support book violence in the form of hitting, throwing, or other. End book violence.

Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program

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 “Somebody’s knocking at your door!”

Before you consider this a slapdash complaint, let me clarify. I’m not one to harp on anyone’s beliefs or herald my own in replacement of them. What we believe in one way or another fulfills us with a purpose to live meaningful lives. The way I see it, and collectively speaking, I believe each religion while varied or not in practice, shares the same God you or I call God. The word’s of an omnist would agree that all religions are acceptable, but a human being would furthermore be just plain accepting. How the Qur’an has Muhammed and the Holy Bible has Jesus Christ, for example, as the people’s disciples in their respective faiths, shows different texts but similar rituals. Whoever you follow and which ever doctrines you take up, I’m not against. To continue, I’ve had a history with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. While not a bad history or any means of civil rivalry, (which is an awful oxymoron; since when is rivalry used in a civil manner?), there remains a line between us that I personally wouldn’t want to crossover.

From middle school as early as I can recall, Jehovah’s Witnesses caught us at the lull of morning. It began usually at nine or ten o’clock, when the neighborhood is either fast asleep or vacant. In our case, we’d been used to eating breakfast at that time and paying a visit every Sunday. My father would be at the ready to relay his message, of course providing them that they share their’s first. After a ten minute or so chat, we got on with our weekend. Then they would send a roulette of Witnesses to our door, sometimes on Saturday instead and sometimes back-to-back. Now as open-minded as my family is, we’re not casting away Jehovah’s Witnesses and disregarding who they are. We know they are a people with good intentions and that’s how they proclaim and show their faith. However, the only stipulation is that Jesus is not considered the Messiah in their eyes. For them, they still lie in wake for God’s merciful return to save the earth’s believers or those who serve Him, an event addressed as Armageddon.

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 “The pamphlets used by Jehovah’s Witnesses for discussion.”

Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t count out Jesus entirely though. He’s still the Son of God, but is treated as a disciple for God’s plan overall. For us, what Jesus did was proclaim the Gospel through the Lord our God. Without Jesus’ life and death, we wouldn’t be washed away of our sins or the original sin from the beginning. This is the Catholic faith, and as Christians we believe Jesus is the Messiah because of this. Coming from my perspective, you can’t afford to miss this, regardless of the minor accepted differences between us. That’s just my faith. Jehovah’s Witnesses continue this proclamation with their own translations (literal at times) and publications from which Jesus carried out alongside his disciples and followers, but don’t accredit him as much as they do God. It’s understandable; God created everything after all, but with His Creation came an important part of it which I can’t help but feel Jesus is responsible for because of Him and through Him.

This confuses me for two reasons. Jesus was a devout Jew and preached the Christian practices found in Catholicism. If anything, was it not Jesus that brought all varying people, Gentile, Jew, Christian, or what have you, together to share in a bonding faith involving God? Again from my perspective, that sounds a great deal paramount for the basis of unity. Also, if Jesus was Jewish, how come he isn’t considered the Messiah for Jehovah’s Witness? It seems to me because Jesus brought other believers under one faith, and Jehovah’s Witnesses are doing the same, they argue it was God and God alone for Jesus’ doing as well as their own, again. It makes sense that Jesus would be the Savior for Jehovah’s Witnesses, because He’s Jewish and He came from God. Unless they see Jesus’ practice in two faiths a religious anomaly, then there’s a rough patch. Other than that, I can’t find another reason why.

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 “Siddhartha is a portmanteau for ‘one who has found meaning of existence.'”

More than recently, my mother has befriended a couple of ladies from Jehovah’s Witnesses. She’s been visited by the same two women ever since I got out of high school, every Wednesday afternoon now. Every week brings a new topic and I will say, jokes aside, I admire their persistence. They’re disappointed when she’s not home as they come prepared just for her since she’s the only one they’ll talk to. If I answer the door, they say, “No problem, next time.” When it’s my mother, the Spanish knot has been tied. Once they find relatable ground, there’s a cushion to fall on before and after they speak their subjects for the day’s hour (or longer depending on how sociable they are). They’ve grown attached and my father knows it the most; he still tries to convince her to kill them with kindness. She can’t bring herself to do it despite her leniency and on top of that, we don’t want to discount their beliefs as lesser to our own.

Dad’s words were always, “We believe Jesus Christ died for our sins,” and he leaves them with that. His candid statement doesn’t spark conflict, just disappointment I can imagine. I imagine that’s the case when two religions meet. You hear about religious wars and I’m sitting here thinking: what religion tolerates war? I’m a peaceable fellow and I’d never tread on others virtues and their sense of it. Nor would I force my beliefs onto others, which isn’t the intent I’m trying to convey of Jehovah’s Witnesses. My father speaks of my family’s faith with the most finality, and I admit he isn’t as open-minded as I am (he wouldn’t let me buy Hermann Hesse’s novel, Siddhartha, even though I’ve read it in school), but I think it’s healthy to know of other religions, even if you don’t take them up as your own. To have that knowledge helps us understand where people come from, not just in religion but in morale and lifestyle choices. Rather than being in opposition, we start to feel an apposition for the good that we all can embody. I thank Jehovah’s Witness for that. Also, my Humanities class. Go humanity!

Wisdom Lossed

Not Feeling Wise

“That was a wink to show I wasn’t loopy; it doesn’t show.”  

For those of you who don’t know or haven’t experienced an amnesia trip before, this should sound interesting. Just around the hour of  8:00 AM today, I had all four Wisdom teeth removed. What a wonderful way to start a rainy, Friday morning, right? Anything beforehand was still remembered, but after the fact and in an instant, nothing matters. I couldn’t believe I retained what I did when I rose from that relaxing, 45° lounge chair. The night prior was torture though.

I kept thinking to myself how they put you under for an hour at the most and assure you of no memory of it all whatsoever. That drove me even further to reassure myself that the year would still be 2014, even if the future people were convincing. I was dying for a midnight drink of water (yet the doctor prescribed no food for twelve hours) and considering how warm I was in bed, no matter how quick a gust of wind could be picked up from the ceiling fan, the night was sleepless for a good two-thirds of it. Just being a bit groggy from sleep had to be the worst sensation. You’re half able when you haven’t had breakfast because you can’t. You’re running on empty knowing you’d be asleep again like you never left your bed. I was hesitant up until the final moment. Mmmm…

Sorry, *smack* *slurp*, I was just taking dollops of a delicious Frosty. Talk about a smooth transition. Now for the twinge talk. Before the appointment, I had an assortment of pills, 3 of a kind. One was a preventative for possible infection during and after the procedure, the others are for pain. Of course the preventative pill was three times the size of its relatives; four of which I had to down with as much as a spoonful of water (too much water would cause an upset stomach afterward).

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“On the left and right, pain pills, and in the center, the Peril Pills.”

An hour goes by, my father drives me to the office’s waiting room and the room holds six people, including us, of a possible fifteen or twenty. Reception was *vanilla’s so good* nice as always and they have to, otherwise who would want to avoid death row? “I bet I’m the first one back there,” I said to my father. One patient, younger than the girl in front of us and I, had been the first and was done within ten minutes of waiting; she had likely been there longer before our arrival. Then the woman sitting adjacently, was next. She and the girl before her were never seen from again, by us anyway. Third times the charm.

I’m guided to the operating chair, and just so you know it’s nothing like the dentist’s, the assistant lady doctor gave me the run-down, very nice and helpful once again, and she began the preparations. Wired tapings on my chest and sides, which I can imagine didn’t feel good coming off, a plastic, pulse pincher for your finger to read your heart rate, which jokingly became a nervous detector, and the stress ball to get your veins pumping and inflated. “Wired,” “pincher,” and “stress” are not words you hope to hear. On the bright side, the doctor was awesome, very subtle and soft-spoken; I could tell he’s been at his practice for a long while. Naturally I trusted him. We get to talking about his daughter, how she’s an English major and how that’s my goal later on in college and thereaft-

That pausing “-” meant a poke and prod of an indistinguishable needle at the top of my hand. I barely felt the sting and it didn’t take me by surprise but he calms me and goes on with the conversation. “What’s your favorite kind of literature?” he asks. “I’ve been leaning towards British Literature,” I reply. I tell him how it’s English yet it sounds like a different language when reading and saying it. I tell him how people quote literature sometimes without having ever read the source it came from. He laughs! I share my favorites like Edgar Allan Poe, describe their works and such. I wanted to mention Sir Arthur Conan Doyle but it didn’t cross my mind. He tells me to keep talking. I get to American Literature from Walt Whitman (which by coincidence happens to be my doctor’s name) and his book, Leaves of Grass, and how he’s a poet in his prose, just a natural speaker with soliloquies and speeches, as it seemed to me. Next thing I know, I’m attached to oxygen nozzles for my nostrils, my glasses are removed, and I draw a blank. Nothingness for forty minutes (according to my Dad) which only felt like five.

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“Representing those English greats!”

I wake up, sluggish, but sane and the lady takes me outside the exit of the building with my Dad at the ready with his get-away car. We parted ways and we never saw them or that building again. A happy ending? Not in the slightest. The whole ride home I was conscience and lucid, but for some reason the drive away and towards home brings up small images, slow and sudden like the kind in a View-Master. A blink here, a blink there and were home. I feel my face with a taped gauze hand, numb to the texture of rubber and casually I brush an elastic fashioned around me from head to chin. The gauze from the mouth was a bunch of a red blots, the right side of my lower lip went limp, so any chance of me speaking without unintentional flimflam or gushing dribble was not likely. To think something so fast would make you so slow.

Now I’m feeling better and the only drawback is a minor case of the hiccups and the salt water rinses. I took a pain pill midday and the gauze is relieving my bite. My only worry, and what will surely be a detriment soon enough, are the soft foods. I know cavemen used their molars since their diets consisted of hard, tough meats to chew, but I’m a carnivore too! Despite that fact not found in the already informative oral surgery pamphlet, I understand not risking the chance of crooked teeth, so there’s that. I guess it was worth it, but let me tell you something. Do it when you’re younger; the teeth aren’t fully developed then meaning less pain if any. For the next week it’s nothing but oatmeal, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, mac n’ cheese, and things of that sort. I had three soft-tissue and one grown Wisdom teeth. Gone. It wasn’t such a bad procedure, but I appreciate the ice cream godsend.

I always thought wisdom was a good thing, but I learned some advice is better than others.

More ice cream? Don’t mind if I do!