I call [Bloody] shenanigans.

The past few days have been rather rough for my standards. Monday, I was woken up by my pain and vomiting from my kidneys, took a bit of Oxycodone and ZOFRAN medication for the pain and nausea, respectively. It got to the point where I had to call the emergency services and be wheeled to the hospital. Blaaaah, while I was in there, I was writhing in pain for most of the time until they finally administered Toridol via IV, as well as fluids and ZOFRAN for the nausea. Glad that it was through a vein and not orally, otherwise I would still be throwing up.
Which I ended up doing, once more. Blegh.
While I was there, something humourous, a child named "Hånter" was brought in as an OD victim in the ward across from mine. He was whining, groaning, resisting the help of the medical professionals, even so when his mother arrived. It was... mildly entertaining to watch him in the bed as they used the catheter on him! Then they pumped his stomach... bluuh. There was blood in his stomach contents. The nurse had to call for assistance because no one else was in the room with her. It was humourous until then. All until then. The day ended on an odd note. I passed out while on the Oxycodone I took before given Vicodin.
Now, after urologist appointment, bad thing happen. I was told that I have eight stones in kidney. It is degrading, what I have to do; I have to urinate 2½ L. a day, and mail it in. Each day. Everything medical... embarrassing.


And on a worse note... I lost a person that I cared greatly for. I almost lost another, too, in the process. I told them what I like to do. I study people, subconsciously. I take notes, for the future. I test people with things, too. I don't notice it but I do. It is... fun to do. Fun to watch. As long as nothing big happens, I am fine with it. I can predict everyone's reaction to something if I know them well enough, even if it is a situation they haven't encountered before. (Run that through your mind. "A situation they haven't encountered before". I get different scrambled images of the characters gasping, holding their hands to their mouth, or just letting their jaw drop. Kskakska.) I'm about to pass out from the exhaustion of repeated Vicodin crashes.
Böök, Onni's funeral is today. I feel sad. I won't be awake at the time. I would much rather curl up and starve than miss the funeral.  I want to pay my respects. Paying respects, be good friend to good friend. I am shameful friend. I did not much good to them. I was angry. I was quite bad to them. I regret a lot of things. I want to hug their dead body.


Farvel.

Just a bit of a post here... nothing special.

Sometimes, I tend to get these rather ludicrous idea in my head that come across as rather crass, for me (I hope I used that word correctly), then I mention them to someone before completely forgetting it the next day. Like the "feel the world" idea. It would have come across as racist to quite a few people, and brilliant to an even smaller amount. So, it was scrapped, which I am sorry to say. I'm talking with Tero about how some Finns act, and seeing from his picture, I decided to comment on it being related to how some Finns seem to act. I also asked him quite a few questions regarding things that are popularily believed about Finns. I'm quite clueless, as I've never been to Finland, before. Not ever. Eeeever. Something, though, has embedded "yelling" into "Finland" in my mind. I don't know what it is, but I can't help but associate yelling with Finnish for some odd reason. I feel rather degraded as I say that. I realize that I can be quite the bigoted and racist bastard when I start to think about things. Though, I push those things aside and divert my attention, for it's not gentleman-ly of me to think things such as that. It's crude. Quite so, though with being crude can also come being simple. Being simple is quite fun, though! Simple things make simplicity -fun-. Though, I don't know if I'm simple or not. I'm merely described to be rustic and charismatic.


Fufu; I'm Remilia.


Well, not really. I'm not a vampire that is over 500 years old. I'm just a simple man that likes to yell, sometimes. I'm also quite senile, as memory loss is becoming more and more apparent. I can't go many places without a cane, now, for two reason's too.
Broken foot; Arthritis. Broken foot hasn't been much new, if you knew me in the last few days or so. Over Steam, that is. No-
Fuck, my back. That's lovely, that piercing feeling you get from back pain. Not an ache, but more of a jab, pull, and scrape... with the scrape being all that is felt. It just hurts quite a bit! Now my arm and hand, too. Ugh, I'll go and call it a night. 

Scandinavian flight path

As per recently, I've been becoming more and more interested in Sweden, mostly, but also the rest of the Scandinavian countries. They truly fascinate me with their culture, their people in general, their language and judicial system. Truly everything, really(even the Finnish "comedy" you might find lying around)! I've actually been saving up quite a bit... I plan to visit Danmark, Suomi, Sverige, and Norge. I already live here, in Greenland, so I somewhat feel like visiting the Faeroes and getting lost. Though, if I get lost, there goes the visit to Danmark. I expect to spend... at least two weeks in each country. I've money for tickets alone to three out of four (Not counting the bloody Faeroes)and-FONT CHANGE~


As I was saying: I've money for 3 ox 4, and now all I need to do is save up for the food that I might buy, small taxes, etc., and then mentally prepare for the jet lag and several time zones I will go back and forth through. Other than that, though...? Things have been going swimmingly, other than conflict here and there. I don't think that Askberg will like where I'm going when it comes to Norway.
I think I'll scare him a bit.

"But in parting..."?

It would make a great post, indeed.

So, recently, I've been under a bit of pressure; not like peer-pressure from co-workers or anything, but mostly from being around certain types of situations. Like seeing one person give affection to someone else, whom I may have had feeling for in the past, and might possibly still have it, and have them react as if they liked it. If I do the same thing, I'm refused, in a rather cold manner. Even talking to them is somewhat of a chore, while others have no problem. I don't even have a history with them yet they seem as if they know me. Whenever I complain about it to someone else, all they can do is say that they feel sorry for me, or try and empathize. Most of the people, I know, are doing it because they feel obligated, or forced to do so. Even the one I who shows cold emotion towards me does something because I seem desperate.

It's making me sick, the thought of it. People are even offering to help me in my little dilemma. I want to hit each and every one of those people who say they can help. Whether it be by explaining the situation to Ø, or convincing Ø to do something for me, I always want to hit them. It's just so bloody fake. Too fake!

Recent happenings

So, recently, on Saturday, I was hospitalized with what I thought was appendicitis. Lovely thing, that. I mean, what else could cause this much pain? I was shaking, vomiting, and in so much pain! I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't get into a position where the pain would just stop, or go away. I would try and try. I had taken a shower to attempt to relieve the pain. I ended up just lying down on the shower floor and whimper until I was coaxed to finally pick up the damned phone and call a friend to drag me to the hospital. It was quite the pitiful state that I was in. I regret having it happen. So, finally, my friend had arrived -and had to drag me into his car, no less- and drove me to the hospital. There, I was rushed into a room, and put on a morphine drip. At first, it was 1litre (Apparently 1 litre and 2mL are the same thing) of morphine, which had worn off in only minutes. It was an excruciating type of pain. It wouldn't go away! Then, they asked me to urinate. Oh gods, I couldn't. I was apparently so dry that I had nothing to let out. They told me that if I couldn't urinate, they would have to use a catheter. Now, I know what a catheter does. I know how they use it. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Anyways! Eventually, after drinking the two litres of contrast (So they could scan me), I had enough fluids in me to urinate. The colour of it was... a dark brown! I had nothing in me.

So, after 4mL more of morphine, it was decided that I don't have appendicitis, and it was just a kidney stone. Lovely. After the scanning, though? It was found out that I had two. The scanning was rather intimidating, though. The signs that say "CAUTION. RADIATION HAZARD." I had seen two men wearing lead plating on their chest. Intimidating indeed. The actual scanning was rather ah... scary! No one told me that they had to leave the room to operate the scanner. Scary indeed...

Three hours later (Let's just skip, here.), I was discharged from the hospital. Fast forward two days later, nothing happened, and I feel on top of the world because of a song. Well... three, actually.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPYLIy3FWpk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQuExgINlSQ
http://horobox.co.uk/u/creec_1331001136.mp3

Lovely songs, those. I especially love the second one. It's a masterpiece...
The third one reminds me of Shogun 2, and I have it playing in the background. Each time. It's lovely... quite so! Stockholm Syndrome? It's... a strange one. I can't find anything that I like about it, yet I do. Maybe it's the feel overall. Maybe because of "Stockholm." Maybe... anyways!

I'm on Percocet because of this recent happening. That, and Keflex, Flomax, ZOFRAN... that's pretty much it. I say Percocet first because it's a painkiller. It makes me high as a kite, too.

Not that high, though. Not as high as morphine.

I forgot what else I was writing. Maybe I'll write it later.

A dream

Another screwy dream! Ooh, how fun.

So, I was waking up at around... 7AM? Well, let us say late 7AM. I was woken up by my phone, but it had gone to voice mail. There wasn't anything special about my waking up, except for my finally picking up the phone around 15 minutes later, checking my voice mail and such. As it turns out, I was supposed to drop into work early. So, since I don't have much of a way to drive when I wake up like this, I decide to call a friend of mine, who has a wife, and have them pick me up. After getting dressed and such, washing my hair over a sink for a short time, I walk out from the hallway and into the living room. There, I saw my family, a wife, her child, and her grand parents, as well as my mother. I don't have any of these, but this didn't strike me as strange. Not in the slightest. So, eventually, I can start to hear thunder, as if a storm was approaching. Soon after that, I hear the beep of a car horn, sling the strap of my satchel over my shoulder, and walk out of the door to my friend's vehicle. Something unusual? He had his wife with him. I questioned him about it as I walked to the door. My friend was a rather kempt man, usually shaven, wearing a suit EVERY DAY. His car is rather small, too. It's like a... a porsche? It's too small for me to normally fit in, but I managed to get inside. In the back, was his wife ( I don't know why I didn't just sit in the front.), sitting right behind him while curling her tongue around a lollipop. I struggled and struggled to sit down in back next to her, before she finally pulled a small lever on the side of the seat (Which I apparently hadn't noticed) and nudged it forward, giving me room to at least sit down and stretch. So, the car pulled out of the driveway, and on we went to where I'm supposedly working. Around... five minutes afterward? We come to a ramp for a highway, continuing up it and onto a rather large stretch of road above a large city. This is nothing like Greenland, though, but it didn't strike me as odd, either. As we continue on our way, I try to make small talk with the wife, which she doesn't respond to. The low rumbles of thunder became more sounded out, and soon enough, rain had began to tap on the roof of the car. Along with the tapping, though... the rain decided to leak through. Suddenly, it's as if we were in a downpour, with rain pouring in through the roof of the car. I try and get to my feet, to block a bit of the inflowing water with my back, but that only makes it worse, since I had apparently raised up the roof of the convertible ( Did I say it was a convertible? I can't remember.) and let in even more water. So, I sat down, soaking wet, with all three of us groaning in dismay from our now tattered clothes and soaked physique.

Then...? We crash. The vehicle slammed into a light post, sending us both jolting forward, with my head slamming into the back of the seat in front of me, and the wife doing the same, but with her body following suit. I can already tell that there was a serious injury, as there was a mass of blood in the front. I lean to the wife, grabbing her by her arm and shaking it, saying that I'll get an ambulance. I turn, letting go of her arm, and try pushing open the door with my foot to no avail. Then, a kick. Or two. Or three. I can't recall, but the door swings open, and I rush... or morely, limp, to what is apparently my house. My house? That it was. I pull open the door and start yelling "I need to call an ambulance.", over and over. Everyone is apparently in disbelief, and suddenly, it's night. My wife is asking me what happened, if I am alright, and again what had happened. I rush outside, tugging her with me, and let go of her as soon as the accident is in view. "Come on, we have to help her!" I yelled, rushing over to the car. Around half way into my run to the disable vehicle, I can see the wife rush out, screaming, wielding a large, machete-like knife, an swinging it in my direction. She's nowhere near me, though, but I quickly back off. She's screaming and yelling, all while lugging around something orange and apparently heavy, as she gets tugged to and fro between each of her swings by inertia. I start to move closer, and, in what I can call the most idiotic thing I've ever done for a dream, I run right after her, wanting to subdue her, but also with this urge to hug her. She flees, running straight away from me to the end of the street. I chase her, but she drops the machete, then reaches for the large orange object on her back. She props it up on her left side, holding it as if it were a rifle. It was a nail gun. How anti-climactic, right? I try and move toward her once more, but with caution. A hiss of air, the sound of a sharp object tearing through the air in front of me, then the sound of a large nail impacting wood, or in this case, my chest. The centre of my chest. Right in my heart, it seems. I gasp, then fall over, turning to my left, landing on my side on the soaked concrete. Everything fades. Then I wake up.

That isn't all of it, though. One more detail. It feels like there is a hole in my chest, now. I keep raising my hand to the centre of my chest, expecting to feel a hole. But, oh well. At least I'm dreaming again.

Why does this February feel like it's been dragging on?

I don't know! I truly don't. I do know that it's a leap year and that this month is supposed to be longer than it would usually be, but that doesn't affect how used-to I am of the standard 30-31 days! In fact, this would make it more fitting, as I don't like to morph to dates. I'll have them morph to me. Perhaps I'm just not doing anything with my time? Perhaps I just can't find an outlet, and things are causing me to drag on and on? What's up, February? This isn't like you. You're supposed to be short and sweet (Unlike March.).

Hunh... Garmarna. I love this Swedish folk band. Or uh... group. I'll call it a group. I'm fascinated by the stories that these songs tell, as well as how the song is preformed. Onni was... a Finn? Yes. I do believe Onni was Finnish, as "Onni" means "happiness" in Finnish. Hm... I don't know much of the Finnish music culture, sadly. I would love to be directed to a sort of Finnish group that has songs such as what Garmarma plays!

I need to sleep. It's 6AM. What am I doing?

Ugh, why did I take a nap again?

I'm such an idiot.

I need a name... and a new banner.

Since my name is rather ambiguous, and my banner has room for improvement. My name is actually quite difficult to stick with, for some people! Harmeyer has resolved to use "My charming stranger", though that's more of a title. People call me Isaac, Vlad, Shou, Yuuka, Aya, V, I, ILM, "ThatDane", Garden, VKK, "bro", Flower, Sunflower, and many other names. Harmeyer wants to give me a name; that I'm sure of. Calling me by any of those names, though, doesn't fit for me. It doesn't fit for him, either. What do to?

Onto the banner... I decided to experiment a bit with Paint.NET and see what I could create out of the original. I'll post one or two, and leave whoever is reading up to voting.

Would you like this, readers? I mean, I probably won't change it much at all. Maybe I'll just add silly things to it and make it a bit of a camaraderie of lines. Oh well, though. I'll make more. Someone find a name that Harmeyer and I would like. That, or let time pick a name. Good day.

A Russian Tree

The silly Russian tree

                Once, there was a boy. Just a wee lad, skipping along merrily through his father’s fields of mushrooms. He was a careless little boy, rather reckless, but his innocence shined like a diamond through that skin of his. He had gone to return home, when he had seen behind his father’s old shed, a tree. A large, glistening tree. He had never seen anything like it before, it’s base slumped against the broadside wall of the shed. Wrapped around the tree’s base, was a scarf. A red scarf with a hammer and sickle. The boy immediately recognized what kind of insignia it was, and stepped back from the tree from his current standing point: the narrow side of the front of the shed. Back and back he went, staring in awe and fear at this tree. The tree did not respond, though. Oh no. The tree merely gazed off into the distance. A lumbering hulk of burnt bark, smoldering leaves, yet still retained it’s colour. The boy slowly stepped forward, becoming insensitive towards the fact that the scarf was that of a Russian soldier’s. Closer and closer he came, eventually forgetting the fact of it’s red taint and standing right under the burning, yet glistening tree. The boy, knowing no English or Russian, asked, “Spregen ze Deutsch…?” The tree seemingly nodded with a falling branch, the fire attached along with it extinguishing as it hits the ground. The boy motioned his hands towards the tree, wondering if the tree was hurt. With another falling branch, the tree shook as if giving a weak nod.  The boy immediately rushed back to his father’s home, snuck inside, and had taken a fire extinguisher and other medical supplies, only knowing that they were to be used in emergencies. For the boy, this was one. He returned to the tree, basket and extinguisher in hand, and gripped the handle of the extinguisher, squeezing the lever and pressing it down, shooting out the flame-retardant liquid onto the tree, quickly shutting off oxygen to the flame and snuffing it. The tree leans over, letting out an inaudible sigh of relief and relaxing against the side of the shed. The little boy sets the aid kit down and takes a roll of medical tape, unrolling it and wrapping it around the tree’s singed branches and bark, taking care to cover each wounded section of the tree. The boy steps back and nods eagerly at the tree, clapping his hands together. The tree slowly turns toward the boy and slowly arches upright, an imaginary smile peeling across the face of the tree. After what seems to be chatter toward the tree in broken German, with a “Guten nacht!”, the boy rushes off to his father’s house and sleeps in peace.

                The next morning, though…

                                                The boy awakens to a scent of burning gunpowder, and the sound of SS boots stomping up the stairs. The boy immediately realizes what is happening and jumps out of bed, pulling the window open and clambering out of the building, jumping from the outside of the window to the roof of his father’s automobile. The boy looks around as he impacts the vehicle, observing the large spotlights glaring in the direction of his out. With a quiet whimper, the boy crawls off of the roof of the vehicle, looking over to the shed and seeing what is left of the tree. A smoldering stump, surrounded by marching SS troopers with a Panzer-4 following close behind, with the large-bore tank barrel replaced with a spotlight, the machine-gunner at it’s post with an MG-3 scanning the fields around them. “Mach schnell! Mach schnell!’ says the SS gunner as he stands from his seat. The boy can only watch in fear as his one vivid memory and most recent friend is destroyed by the lumbering hulk of steel and brass. With a scream of blood-curdling proportions, the boy runs off, never to be seen by the men of the guard again.

                Three days later…

                                The boy returns to the farm, only to find it a smoldering wreck. With a sigh of disparage, the boy slowly trots to the ruins of the shed and the fallen, flattened tree. The left-over treads from the large tank and the heavy footprints from the boots of the shock troopers are all that is left around the shed. The boy falls to his knees and begins to sob, uttering out faint English. “Not fair… not fair at all. Pomogitie moya…” the boy utters, hugging the remains of the tree. With a weak turn, the tree turns and seemingly looks up at the boy with the wide, peeling smile from before. “Mudyu shak’ odosha… dausti tebya.” Utters the tree, handing him the scarf. The boy slowly takes the scarf and wraps it around his neck, taking the tree’s scorched soldier cap and putting it on his head. One last word, the tree utters out. “Spasiba...”, said with a groan and the sound of a man expiring on his death bed. The poor mal’chik only stares, tears welling up in his eyes with a mimicking smile, peeling across his face. “Danke.” The boy says with a nod, clambering to his feet and turning, walking away from the corpse of the soldier. The only human he would ever really know.

A light scare

So, earlier this day (If you're actually reading it, today.) I had decided that I wanted to try lucid dreaming. I do hope you all know what that is, and if you don't, there's a small picture I'd like to show you, however small it might be.

There you go. That's basically a how-to lucidly dream. I've found it to be a rather competent method of doing so. Step one says that it "works best if you are extremely tired." Usually, I only try to do these things when I'm near the point of dropping on the floor and snoozing like a baby. This time, I wasn't. So, what do I do? I decide to run in place, do a few push-ups, all while listening to Boris Berezovskí. I do quite love his piano workings. Anyways, so, I had decided that it wasn't working too well, my exercising  and what-not. So, I decided to force myself to pant. Rapid breathing, etc. Now, I knew at first this was a rather bad idea, seeing as I have asthma that can be sparked by just a puff of smoke. But I decided to, anyways. Instead of being met with asthma, it was more of a... "drop." My chest, felt like it was sinking, before it had replicated a sort of plunge down, as if I were being crushed. My heart beat also felt rather erratic, and soon after, the beats I could feel were being misplaced. I soon after coerced myself to sit down and try to breathe normal, starting to shake as I stared up at the ceiling with a more than petrified expression. I can't explain what I had felt, other than "fear." I mean... there was anger, too, but mostly at myself. I'll most likely never that sort of exercise again, seeing how it had unfolded. I'm not usually scared by things, though I can be surprised. Hm. Good day. 

Naps

Such strange things they are. Usually, whenever one wants to take a nap, and they awaken? They feel on top of the world, sometimes. Other times, just neutral. Some people are like me, and have to force themselves to sleep because of their medical conditions. I don't find naps to be quite friendly to me, though. I always wake up with this sickening feeling of self-loathing and feel like walking into traffic, or maybe in front of a stop-sign. I hate the feeling that I always get; it's one of the worst that I can feel. Harmeyer is awake, and here, so I've got one less thing to worry about. I usually have to chat with someone, maybe I'd have to go through a quick RP-session with someone, too. Sometimes, though, it feels good to just let things off. Though, with those things, come with insults. Onni had dealt with my moods numerous times, too. I regret doing these sort of things that I know I will regret - like naps - while thinking that it will "be okay, this time." It's driving me nigh mad. You do these things, expecting a different result. All of the time, it's the same result. You can think of it as different, and want another one, but that doesn't make you any less mad. Hm. I feel better, now. Should I continue with my writing?

That I shall, but only for a few more sentences. I've lost motivation.

It's somewhat how I am with a few certain video games that I have. Max Payne 2, where I go into a room, clear it of the ones that want to kill me, and look at the scene as if it were something real happening. I try and make the bodies fit, into a sort of scenario. That's always what I do. It's what I do each time I play the game. Not for the story -Even though Max Payne has a brilliant story- but for the fun I have playing it. I always try to make it fit. Time and time again. That's all that I do.

A bit of a rant, here. Nothing more.

Aha, as an earlier conversation had provoked my mind to begin the sort of "thinking" phase, I will decide to rant on for as much as I like, and you all get to see it. Now, xenophobia. What some would call a blessing to prevent harmful change, and what others call a tumor to prevent helpful change. There aren't many sides of this argument, other than the base two. The ones that are the xenophobes and are biased with their fear of change and most/all things foreign, and those who are not xenophobes who are arguing the need for foreign contact. I am honestly neutral whenever it comes to this, though I do say that xenophobia is something that should be regarded as a curse in today's society. Nothing good comes from the senseless fear and disparage being harboured by one's inability to want to even try to cope with someone of a different sort of nationality or gender or even descent. Xenophobia is a tumor, and the thought process of one that has any sort of xenophobia is one that I can't understand. I just don't see how anyone would be able to hate things that are different than them. Though, I feel the same thing about the entire American Civil Rights problem that is still being fought today. I just don't get it.

May he rest in peace.

His name was Onni. He was a great man. He had stood with me through thick and thin. And he never deserved what happened to him. People say that... it is always the good who die young. Today, this could not be any more true. I wish him the best in the afterlife. I wish the best for his mother, too. It is sad... having been left to one's lonesome, having your only surviving family pass away. A car accident... discharge from hospital... then a heart attack on the way home. In a taxi...
Yeah... in his taxi. On the way home. To us. To his mother. We all prayed for him. All of us did this for him. We all prayed for Onni's safe return. Only to be met with... a bittersweet goodbye. 

I have a blog, now.

How fun! Now I can write about my day, week, even month with this. I would write things now other than this, but I am rather tired and am in need of sleep. For now though, readers, what little I have which include myself, goodnight!