Right now, my arm feels very woozy. Kind of like it has a concussion. In fact, I think I might possibly have an ARM CONCUSSION, which doesn't seem medically possible (or normal) and that happens to be gained from carrying things. Like monkeys. Or friends.
This particular arm stress happened from carrying my friend on my back after she decided that she was tired. And, because I am such a wonderfully fantastic person, I said I would carry her.
Let me tell you something about myself, Blog-reader. I am weak. The circumference of my arm and a piece of spaghetti are almost the same. The spaghetti may be bigger. I haven't measured it recently. (Though, I've got to admit, my arms did get a bit stronger after tennis season, but if you ever witness my serve, you'll know that I still have the strength of a piece of cotton.)
Anyway, my arm concussion happened because I carried her through a hallway and a half before finally giving up and dropping her. Not on her head or her butt of anything. It was more of a, "Hey, my arms are about to fall off because I am very weak. Please remove yourself from my back. Kthx."
Because she knows about the uselessness of my arms, she complied quite quickly. However I am now left with an arm concussion. I'm extremely grateful that THIS particular concussion was not a result of evil Bunny Hills.
Alright. My main topic for today (Oh yeah! Happy End of Week One/Beginning of Week Two of BEDA!!!) is my ghost, whose name I'm still deciding. I think it's going to be Thomas, but he hasn't made an appearance in a while so I'm not sure if Thomas fits his personality.
This particular arm stress happened from carrying my friend on my back after she decided that she was tired. And, because I am such a wonderfully fantastic person, I said I would carry her.
Let me tell you something about myself, Blog-reader. I am weak. The circumference of my arm and a piece of spaghetti are almost the same. The spaghetti may be bigger. I haven't measured it recently. (Though, I've got to admit, my arms did get a bit stronger after tennis season, but if you ever witness my serve, you'll know that I still have the strength of a piece of cotton.)
Anyway, my arm concussion happened because I carried her through a hallway and a half before finally giving up and dropping her. Not on her head or her butt of anything. It was more of a, "Hey, my arms are about to fall off because I am very weak. Please remove yourself from my back. Kthx."
Because she knows about the uselessness of my arms, she complied quite quickly. However I am now left with an arm concussion. I'm extremely grateful that THIS particular concussion was not a result of evil Bunny Hills.
Alright. My main topic for today (Oh yeah! Happy End of Week One/Beginning of Week Two of BEDA!!!) is my ghost, whose name I'm still deciding. I think it's going to be Thomas, but he hasn't made an appearance in a while so I'm not sure if Thomas fits his personality.
What I imagine Thomas to look like.
I think Thomas (which is what I'll call him in here so that I don't have to keep referring to him as 'my ghost' which would get old quickly) is a summer ghost, or at least a relatively summer ghost because he seems to shy away from being annoying in the winter. Perhaps he's upstairs in the attic with whatever else we've got up there. It's small, but I bet he could fit, because, like, he's a ghost.
There are two stories that I think are evidence of me having a ghost. That only haunts my room. And only likes to bother me. It's kind of similar to the problem Emily has in The Year My Life Went Down the Loo.
Except Thomas doesn't live in solely in my underwear drawer and, thankfully, he doesn't toss all my bras around the room. I'd get really annoyed with him if he did that. Thankfully, he only likes to fix things for me and occasionally misplace my shoes.
Which are the stories that I'm going to tell you about. I'll start with the shoes, as it happened before all the rest and was the reason I decided I had a ghost in the first place.
As I've mentioned before, I play tennis. I don't have a nifty SPECIAL pair of tennis shoes that I wear, I just have sneakers. However, during school, I didn't want to wear sneakers because it was still MOSTLY summer, therefore still warm, and my feet did not want to be confined by the evilness of SOCKS.
So, everyday, I would have to bring my sneakers with me to school, along with my tennis clothes, so that I, you know, didn't have to play tennis in jeans and flip flops. I'm pretty sure my coach would have had a heart attack if I did that. He's a stickler for proper footwear.
Like I said before, I am NOT A FAN of having my feel TRAPPED BY SOCKS AND SNEAKERS in the summer, so on the way home from practice, I had a habit of, despite the risk of High Stink Levels, taking off my socks and shoes, stuffing them BACK IN MY BAG (Note the importance of this!), and putting my flip flops on. Then, when I would get home, I would drop my bag on my bedroom floor and leave it until the next morning, where I would swap out clothes for things that don't smell like ick or post-tennis.
Well, one morning, I was about to replace what was in my bag. My sneakers were in there, just hanging around waiting for their new best friends that would be another pair of shorts and a t shirt. I saw BOTH OF MY SNEAKERS in my bag. I knew they were there. I SAW them. THEY. WERE. THERE.
And then I got sidetracked and went to find more clothes to put in my bag. When I returned to the bag, I wanted to make sure my shoes were still there and in the bag, because occasionally they fall out, and even though I had already seen them, I just wanted to make sure. However, when I went to look, I only saw ONE SHOE!
Just ONE!
Frantically, I started searching my room, tossing clothes aside, checking the bag five more times, under the bed, in the closet, under the dresser. It COULDN'T BE FOUND. I was distraught. I had no idea WHERE MY SHOE WENT.
I ran downstairs and asked my mom if she saw it. She said she thought she saw it by the back door, so I searched the pile of shoes that live over there. There were heels and flip flops and fancy shoes and everything EXCEPT MY OTHER SHOE.
You can see the problem.
I bolted back upstairs, paranoid now that I was going to be late for school. I checked EVERYwhere, doubled checked everything, and my shoe, still, could not be found.
"Seriously!" I was shouting to no one in particular except my shoe. "Where the hell could a SHOE go? How does it just DISAPPEAR!?"
Apparently, after frantic searching, if you cannot find the desired footwear, you start to go insane. I did not know this. I sounded like a lunatic.
At one point my mom heard me because she answered, "It's probably by the back door!"
"No! I checked! It's not there! It's gone!"
"Ashley!"
"WHAT!?" It was seven in the morning, and I couldn't find my stupid shoe. I hope my short-temperedness can be perceived as slightly reasonable. I mean, I needed it. Tennis + not sneakers + crazy coach = sprints for Ashley, and probably while not wearing shoes.
"It's down here!"
Confused, I ran back down the stairs and RIGHT THERE in the middle of my living room floor was my missing shoe. It was just lying there, as if it had been there ALL ALONG, even though I KNOW IT HADN'T BEEN because it was in my room. I swear to you, blog-readers, my shoe was in my room and I saw both of them. Also, it doesn't even make sense how my shoe could have gotten in the living room in the first place. Also SQUARED, don't you think I would have seen it the first fifty times I was running frantically through my house, LOOKING FOR IT.
That is the first reason I think I have a ghost. And an annoying one at that. However, the lamp story isn't as much annoying as it is helpful. Also, I felt like a complete moron after this happened. Sometimes it's frustrating knowing that your ghost is smarter than you. I'm just saying.
I think Thomas (which is what I'll call him in here so that I don't have to keep referring to him as 'my ghost' which would get old quickly) is a summer ghost, or at least a relatively summer ghost because he seems to shy away from being annoying in the winter. Perhaps he's upstairs in the attic with whatever else we've got up there. It's small, but I bet he could fit, because, like, he's a ghost.
There are two stories that I think are evidence of me having a ghost. That only haunts my room. And only likes to bother me. It's kind of similar to the problem Emily has in The Year My Life Went Down the Loo.
Except Thomas doesn't live in solely in my underwear drawer and, thankfully, he doesn't toss all my bras around the room. I'd get really annoyed with him if he did that. Thankfully, he only likes to fix things for me and occasionally misplace my shoes.
Which are the stories that I'm going to tell you about. I'll start with the shoes, as it happened before all the rest and was the reason I decided I had a ghost in the first place.
As I've mentioned before, I play tennis. I don't have a nifty SPECIAL pair of tennis shoes that I wear, I just have sneakers. However, during school, I didn't want to wear sneakers because it was still MOSTLY summer, therefore still warm, and my feet did not want to be confined by the evilness of SOCKS.
So, everyday, I would have to bring my sneakers with me to school, along with my tennis clothes, so that I, you know, didn't have to play tennis in jeans and flip flops. I'm pretty sure my coach would have had a heart attack if I did that. He's a stickler for proper footwear.
Like I said before, I am NOT A FAN of having my feel TRAPPED BY SOCKS AND SNEAKERS in the summer, so on the way home from practice, I had a habit of, despite the risk of High Stink Levels, taking off my socks and shoes, stuffing them BACK IN MY BAG (Note the importance of this!), and putting my flip flops on. Then, when I would get home, I would drop my bag on my bedroom floor and leave it until the next morning, where I would swap out clothes for things that don't smell like ick or post-tennis.
Well, one morning, I was about to replace what was in my bag. My sneakers were in there, just hanging around waiting for their new best friends that would be another pair of shorts and a t shirt. I saw BOTH OF MY SNEAKERS in my bag. I knew they were there. I SAW them. THEY. WERE. THERE.
And then I got sidetracked and went to find more clothes to put in my bag. When I returned to the bag, I wanted to make sure my shoes were still there and in the bag, because occasionally they fall out, and even though I had already seen them, I just wanted to make sure. However, when I went to look, I only saw ONE SHOE!
Just ONE!
Frantically, I started searching my room, tossing clothes aside, checking the bag five more times, under the bed, in the closet, under the dresser. It COULDN'T BE FOUND. I was distraught. I had no idea WHERE MY SHOE WENT.
I ran downstairs and asked my mom if she saw it. She said she thought she saw it by the back door, so I searched the pile of shoes that live over there. There were heels and flip flops and fancy shoes and everything EXCEPT MY OTHER SHOE.
You can see the problem.
I bolted back upstairs, paranoid now that I was going to be late for school. I checked EVERYwhere, doubled checked everything, and my shoe, still, could not be found.
"Seriously!" I was shouting to no one in particular except my shoe. "Where the hell could a SHOE go? How does it just DISAPPEAR!?"
Apparently, after frantic searching, if you cannot find the desired footwear, you start to go insane. I did not know this. I sounded like a lunatic.
At one point my mom heard me because she answered, "It's probably by the back door!"
"No! I checked! It's not there! It's gone!"
"Ashley!"
"WHAT!?" It was seven in the morning, and I couldn't find my stupid shoe. I hope my short-temperedness can be perceived as slightly reasonable. I mean, I needed it. Tennis + not sneakers + crazy coach = sprints for Ashley, and probably while not wearing shoes.
"It's down here!"
Confused, I ran back down the stairs and RIGHT THERE in the middle of my living room floor was my missing shoe. It was just lying there, as if it had been there ALL ALONG, even though I KNOW IT HADN'T BEEN because it was in my room. I swear to you, blog-readers, my shoe was in my room and I saw both of them. Also, it doesn't even make sense how my shoe could have gotten in the living room in the first place. Also SQUARED, don't you think I would have seen it the first fifty times I was running frantically through my house, LOOKING FOR IT.
That is the first reason I think I have a ghost. And an annoying one at that. However, the lamp story isn't as much annoying as it is helpful. Also, I felt like a complete moron after this happened. Sometimes it's frustrating knowing that your ghost is smarter than you. I'm just saying.
A couple summers ago, we moved into the house that I live in now. The one that left me with a haunted room. We went to Lowes (or maybe it was Home Depot) because we were going to fix some things up a bit before we actually moved in. I mean, I'm quite glad that we added that final wall. The breeze would have gotten quite cold after a while, especially in winter.
When we were at Lowes (or Home Depot), I was also shopping for things that I wanted. I think we were actually buying paint. I knew my room was going to be blue (Unfortunately. My mom was dead set against it being orange, even though I would be the one having to live in it, not her.) and I wanted something nice and pretty to make it lovely and mine. Well, I found this lamp that matched my room almost eerily, so I bought it. It had a lamp shade that I thought was uber cool and balanced on top of this ball on top of the lamp, so that is how I always had it, balancing on top of the little metal ball.
Yes, occasionally it would fall, but I just thought that it was one of the downsides of that particular lamp. But everything has flaws, so I looked passed it. It was only human, after all.
Well, one day, I got home and went to turn on this lamp, because I needed it light, and it turns out that the lamp did much more than compliment my room. In fact, it made light, too, which made things like seeing much easier. I went to turn it on, careful not to knock the shade off as I had so many times before.
When the shade didn't even wiggle, I became intrigued. Did the shade suddenly become adhesive? Did it not want to move? Over the course of a day, did the lamp acquire very good balancing skills?
None of those were the answer. What had happened was this:
The little metal ball, that I thought was used for BALANCING, could actually be unscrewed! Yes! You're supposed to unscrew the little metal NOT-balance ball, put the shade on there, and then screw the ball back on! WHAT A CONCEPT! I was in complete shock about this that at first I didn't even wonder how this came to be.
And then I did.
"Mom!" I said when I went downstairs. "How'd you know the little non-balance metal ball unscrewed and that's how the lamp shade stayed on?" I was beaming. I would never have to face the wrath of unbalanced lamp shades again!
My mom looked utterly and honestly confused. "What?"
Which lead to me asking every person in my house if they knew anything about my mysterious balanced lamp. And none of them did. The only logical explanation that I could come up with was that MY GHOST HAD STRUCK AGAIN!
Yes! Thomas had come back, except this time he was HELPFUL. That was something strange and new. I appreciated his help, but it was still kind of strange having a ghost look out for me.
He hasn't made an appearance since then, and I'm wondering if he'll come back. Maybe he'll come visit me in college? Maybe he'll move his hauntings down the hall and into my brother's room? Perhaps he'll take residence in one of my shoes. I don't know. But there is my proof that my room is, in fact, haunted.
Have you ever been in the hospital?
This seemed like the perfect random question for today. Not because I'm about ready to go to the hospital or anything, because I'm not. My arm concussion seems to have faded since I started this, so I don't think it will need to be hospitalized, which is good, because I need my left hand as I am left handed.
I have been in the hospital, for many reasons. Four births that I can remember (not including my own), a concussion, and stitches. You've already heard about the stupid concussion. Now I'm going to tell you about the stitches.
This happened in sixth grade. My brother had this very bad habit of starting water wars with me at horrible times, but I would always fight back. Do you know those little things that you suck medicine into, so that you can measure it, and then squirt it out? Well, those are actually also very convenient to have in a water war. That's what he was using. My weapon choice was a cup. A glass cup. I wasn't thinking much when I grabbed this, and I'm sure you're already piecing together what happened.
I chased him through the house, out the door, around the backyard, and he bolted up the stairs. Somehow, in my attempt to follow, I tripped up the stairs, trying to catch myself with the hand that was also holding the glass of water.
Bad idea.
The glass broke, obviously, and decided that, instead of being nice and avoiding my hand, it would cut a nice jagged line right into my hand. I mean, it was pretty deep. Clearly, as I had to get stitches. I'm pretty sure I hit an artery (unless, if by hitting an artery you die, in which case it wasn't one, because I'm still alive), so it was bleeding like a head wound, which was really gross.
I started freaking out and wrapped it in a towel, and my mom came rushing down, saying that we needed to go to the hospital.
See, I didn't think I needed to go to the hospital, so this news freaked me out EVEN MORE. That is NOT something a twelve year old needs to hear. Regardless, we went to the hospital, where, first they wrapped my hand up, and asked me questions, and then stuck me in the waiting room for HOURS. I'm not even kidding. It was SO LONG.
In the time spent waiting in the waiting room (and they did name that quite properly), I made a new friend, who I'm pretty sure was drunk. It was this lady who was bit by this bug, and it made her hand swell, and she wanted to make sure she wasn't going to, like, die or anything.
She even brought the bug in a little plastic bag.
She was really funny, possibly because she might have been drunk. Maybe just over tired. I'm not sure which, but it was enough to amuse little twelve year old me. She came with one of her friends, who had bug stickers in her purse, so I was helping her pick out which ones she needed to put on the baggy to make a home for Charlotte. Which is what she named it.
It gets better though! After a while, another lady walked in and went to do the whole Asking Questions bit, and her daughter came to sit with us. At this point, it was probably midnight, because hand wounds and bug bites apparently aren't NEARLY as important as other highly rated hospital priorities. Anyway, so this girl comes over, and we tell her the story with the bug and how we named her Charlotte and everything.
"Can I see it?" she finally asks, holding out her hand for the bug-in-a-bag.
Crazy possibly-drunk-but-funny lady hands over Charlotte with her Sticker Family. We wait patiently while this girl observes the bug.
After much waiting (again I say, this room was FULL OF IT!), she finally says, "That's a boy bug, not a girl." Our response was pretty much... *blink blink blink*.
"Really?" The girl nodded. So then we changed Charlotte's name to Charlie. It was the only logical thing to do.
Three years of waiting later, they FINALLY called me in and said that I needed stitches, which, along with hearing that I needed to go to the hospital, was not something I WANTED TO KNOW. But I went anyway and tried not to stare at the gaping black hole that was the hand wound. Or the needle. The needle that they POKED INTO THE GAPING HAND WOUND to make the pain stop.
I hate needles.
I remember talking about soccer, because I think they were trying to distract me from the fact that they were SEWING ME UP LIKE NEEDLEWORK.
There were five stitches, and I had them during my sixth grade graduation, which was kind of cool, but kind of inconvenient. Also, I got to go into school late the next day because we were at the hospital until, I'm not even kidding, three in the morning.
I never actually checked how much I write in these things, and this is close to 3000 words! I'm so sorry that they're so long! I'll have to cut back!
Slaters, guys,
Ashley
(Also, I'm not sure why the second half of this is formatted weird, and I'm too lazy to go solve the problem. Sorry!)
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