Yukon Writing of a Dangerous Mind

Monday, February 20, 2006

A wonder, it didn't hurt at all.

I plan on using this as a random writing post, something where maybe someone, someday will read some of whatever I've written in here and be astounded at the sheer amazing of it. Or not. For those future readers, I spell things as well as I can, and I do not believe in using capitals for every goddamned "propah" noun that waltzes it's way onto my page.
if you dare not forgive this, meh.
not really my problem.

Anyway, lets start with some thoughts on blogging.
1) It sounds much too like a dangerous sexual activity for my liking. I'd rather just say "post my writings", or "this is where I'll be bitching about how shitty people are" but whatever. Sometimes you just go with the lie.
2)Blog: verb, infinitive.
to blog: you open your page and write
you blog
she blogs
he blogs
they blog
look. We're all writing now. Not too much is very interesting, but we're all writing about how shitty life is and how we hope there's something later......Damn. I digress.
3) it's something to do when I can't sleep and it's four in the morning in Whitehorse and quite chilly outside. The cold, and the fact I'm too poor for any drugs right now surely are good enough reasons for me to be doing this. Anyway, we move on.

My name is Kyle. My first blog will be a report on the conditions of having the talent, but no suitable instrument. You see, I do so believe it builds character to start out on a shitty instruments, in my case, a neck warped cheap Yamaha guitar, but I did get it from my father, so I do cherish it. The problem is, these guitars are meant to last about four years. The pick-ups grow out, a horrible buzzing starts, etc. It is, all in all, a bad scene. So, I need money. Easy, right?
Do what every other seventeen year old of a six kid family does. Get a job.

Oh wait, I have a job. Actually, two, if you count the volunteer work at The Daily Star (a Whitehorse newspaper) I'll be starting soon. The problem with my job is that I need to have a working right hand. Oh yeah. Did I mention I just had surgery? And I wouldn't be able to do any dishwashing or pizza tossing for at least another month? Oh. Sorry. Well, I'll fill you in...

You see, three, (well, two and a half) years ago, my friend Jordan lit his kitchen on fire when John and him were making French fries. I had just arrived, guitar in hand, and they had just gotten to the "munchies" stage of being stoned. So, they proceeded to make French fries in a giant pot on the stove. Little did I know, neither of them had enough culinary expertise to fill a tablespoon. Hell, they didn't know a table spoon from a cup, let alone a teaspoon. Moving on.
I had a moment to set my guitar in the living room, when Jordan came in with an odd expression on his face.
"kitchen's on fire." he says.
and walks upstairs. I think it was upstairs, because I was already running into the kitchen.
Lo and behold, the kitchen wasn't on fire. He had lied.
It was only the giant pot of French fry oil.
Meh, I though, this I can deal with.
And proceeded to look about for potholders. I found three, and a few tea towels. I wrapped my hands as well as I could, and grabbed the pot. It was barely warm through the thick cloth.
Easy as pie, I thought, moving as quickly as I could without spilling. Okay, without spilling much. I now know the effects of a boiling bit of grease hitting a linoleum floor. (it sparks up as it makes contact, then fizzes out as it splashes back up. Quite pretty, really.
I made it to the door of the boot room, which was ajar. I pushed it open, and slowly transferred all the weight of the pot to my right hand, opening and flinging away the front door.
Ahh, the mistake.
For you see, thought the Shmights had built their house well, they built it so that when you flung their front door open, and the boot room door was open against the wall, the front door would respond to being flung by flinging itself back to you.
Which is what it did, precisely as I started pouring the concotion of boiling potato parts and flaming canola oil onto his gravel driveway, which came up to the step.
The door hit me in the back, causing a slight spill down my right arm and wrist.
Which, as I reflect back on it now, really freakin' sucked.

I dropped the pot, and stared at my now browning, slowly turning black from burnination wrist and hand.

A wonder, having your skin melted right off didn't hurt at all.

Nonetheless, I ran back inside, where, under a much safer bathroom sink, I ran cold water over what had been my right hand and wrist and forearm.
It was burnt.
John's dad, having been called, was over in a jiffy. We packed a plastic bag full of snow that wasn't visibly dirty and stuck my hand in it. Then we drove to the hospital.
When we get there, it still doesn't hurt. I'm almost feeling high, I'm so light headed. This must be shock.
A nurse asks if I can wait, there's people with broken parts and blood leakings that look more serious. I say sure. After further prodding and poking, by a different nurse, my burns are announced as third degree.
"I assume that's bad, then?" I ask.
"Only the worst. Don't worry, you seem to be doing fine."
John's father departs, leaving me in the waiting room with worried relatives and to be inspected victims.

Oh yeah, and the phone. I should probably phone a family member. Mom or dad?
My memories of after that turn into a hazy morphine induced groggy state of non-living.
I can't really remember what happened next, but I woke up with my mom saying I should have went home after school, and not to my friend's house.
I hate it when my parents are right.

So, after three years (well, two and a half) of waiting, they finally operated on my hand, removing it in a process that I believe is called a "bone scrape)
sounds delightful, doesn't it?
I had to fly to Edmonton for it, I missed my exams in history, English and law, and it got infected on the way back.
Leaving me to deal with my exams and such with only one hand.
I did my law exam. Not a problem.
The school hired a scribe.
Now,because the Yukon school system mirrors, (or mimics, however you want to say it) the one of British Colombia, my history exam is a departmental. Which means I have to wait for the next sitting until I can write it. Which, unfortunately, is not until June. And English I write tomorrow morning, just after handing in a novel study I'm still working on.

It's now four thirty four in the morning, and I have realized that life, much like being unable to properly move your arm, sucks.
Well, I do have homework to do.
Take care.