Well, another week down, and what an interesting one it has been! First off, after my Jazz session last Friday night (a blog I'm sure you've already read, but if not, click this link), I had a nice dinner with my parents on Sunday. Nothing especially unusual about that - dinner at the night markets, Baskin Robbins for dessert, but I must admit I wasn't prepared for the late night entertainment - getting shit on by a bat!
Yes, you heard me. Of all the air space in existence, one lowly, flea infested bat had to fly overhead and poop on my recently washed hair. Some say that's good luck, usually the people laughing and passing you a tissue, but I suspect it might have been karma for chickening out on getting a tattoo about a half hour earlier.
Enter Wednesday's events and it was shaping up to be, pardon the pun - a shitty week. I went for an endoscopy - a small scope feeding through my esophagus to look for aliens.
The doctor said I was a pain in the ass, of course delivered with a few more medical terms thrown in and without the word 'ass' in the sentence. My throat apparently closed over and they had to force it through, taking three biopsies while they were at it. And despite my colourful and very vivid dream of Gerard Butler's abdominals, I woke up feeling like someone had shoved the garden hose down my throat and punched me in the guts.
Thursday and Friday proved relatively uneventful, but I had Saturday night to look forward to - dinner at this hippie place my friend swore would be a good time. You know me, despite my hobbit tendencies, I'll always try something new.
Alas, despite warning that I would undoubtedly have front row seats to an abundance of breastfeeding, dreadlocks and the smell of unwashed armpit, I wanted to go. I was curious about the challenge my friend had issued to one and all - eating the 'Wicked Wings of Death'! Oh yes, I'm talking seriously spicy chicken that will literally make you curl up in a ball, cry and beg for your mama!
So clearly I'm a pussy. I have a reflux issue so I wasn't going near those spicy bastards with a ten foot pole after my Wednesday abuse, but I kinda expected my talk-it-up brother who once ate one of the hottest Mexican Chilli's for a dare to undertake the challenge. I suspect lingering memories of mouth ulcers and belly bloat bloat from over consumption of milk inspired him to pike out and order a counter meal instead.
Needless to say, I'm disappointed that I saw no crying, no bleeding gums, and by nine o'clock had to listen to some woman think she was 'crazy', though I suspected this was merely a bad rendition of Gnarls Barkley's greatest hit. I'm still not sure, maybe it was the watered down drinks or resonance in the microphone.
Anyway, can't wait to see what happens next weekend.
Have a good one,