This morning, at approximately 11:05AM, about 30 minutes after my boyfriend called, about an hour after my best friend called (To which I found out later was about a dream she had about canaries and poop), and the big one, about five hours after I had hopped into my comfortable, soft, warm bed–I was rudely awakened by three loud bangs on the door. I hadn’t picked up either phone calls, at least consciously, so there was no way in hell I was going to peel myself out of bed and answer the door. Then a miracle, a religious miracle even, I got out of bed, groggy and clearly upset. I quickly unlock the door to be welcomed by two men, holding bibles…evangelical solicitors??!!!

(Wait a second, just a thought–Those still exist? What? Are we in the 1990s or something? Can’t they send an e-mail? Can’t that get forwarded to my junk inbox, never to be seen again?)

“I’m sorry, did we wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a night-worker?”
“No.”

The sad, honest truth–because no one gets that anymore–is that, in fact, I am a night worker. I stayed up all night and diligently watched Grey’s Anatomy.

If I wasn’t regaining sensation in the left side of my nose, I’d be more pissed off.

Damn. What else can you fit through a syringe? It’s been 12 days and I am desperate for solids. Please, no more blends. Time is going by more slowly than ever–and as of now, all I am looking forward is to my weekly Wednesday photo-op with myself to gauge the swelling. In the meantime, as Time decides to move at its lugubrious pace, I’ve taken it upon myself to renew, reinvent, reconstruct, and re-st. Lots of resting–I’m a prisoner of my own home. Thank for all the wonderful souls who have taken it upon themselves to visit me despite the lack of verbal conversation. I know continuously reading stupid answers to simple questions in messy handwriting can get, well, boring and annoying.

My mom blended me some salmon porridge. No. More. Please. My life revolves around blended foods and a syringe right now. And so, my adventure continues.

I’m a big fan of countries getting together for diplomatic reasons or otherwise. For example: The United Nations, the Olympics, and Miss Universe. My mom’s going wild for the little Vietnamese children in the Miss Universe pageant right now; I guess I am a little too. Though Miss Universe is not a reasonable goal, given that some of the girls are 19 (?!) right now–I’ll stick to Model UN, which seems to a Miss Universe for the slightly less aesthetically pleasing. Okay, let’s get real–United Nations is Miss Universe’s uglier, but smarter cousin. Anyone excited for the Olympics? By the way, a big step: I finally bought a personal white board to save paper.

When you sit down and really invest some time into making a playlist, of course, you’d love it. On another note (No pun intended), I had another appointment with my jaw surgeon today–it was very routine. We took x-rays, front, side, and around. I never did like those markers on my forehead or those pesky gelly pointers in my ears. Having half the receptionists say they don’t recognize you is cause for more concern than the discomfort caused by gelly pointers. I do wonder what happens to people who have had major reconstructive surgery, whether by choice or not. What do you do when you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror? Does it all matter in the end if you look more “beautiful”? What constitutes beauty and why have I fallen victim to its arbitrary definition?

Also, I hate when my mom insists on calling me and asking me questions over the telephone as if she conveniently forgot that I have my jaw wired shut.