Puzzle Pieces

In 2011, I was a world traveller. I logged more than 60 hours on various planes and probably spent the equivalent amount of time waiting around airports and at border crossings.

I grew in unexpected ways this year - unexpected to me at least. While I experienced so many incredible things, I never quite managed to escape the underlying feeling of discontentment that has been overwhelming me lately. If someone were to ask me "are you happy? I wouldn't even hesitate before responding, "yes, I am happy." But it is difficult to explain the sense that I could be so much more happy - that there is something out there is something out there that is just out of my grasp.

Lessons Learned from Sister Act

Have you ever watched the movie Sister Act? Of course you have. How could you not have?

I watched it this evening in preparation for the bar. Going forward, this will be a regular thing for me.

It was magical.

Did you know that the power to move people was in the nuns the whole time? It wasn't Sister Mary Clarence that made the other nuns great. She just helped them realize that there is greatness inside each and everyone of us.

For the nuns in the movie, I would assume that the aforementioned greatness is largely represented through the ability to sing gospel songs that have been modernized, but it is probably different for other people. For instance, for me, my greatness is in my ability to become a ridiculously great dancer after having consumed a few alcoholic beverages.

I am going to confess something: I may have had a few drinks tonight. Or maybe I had five drinks. Whatever. That is unimportant. What is important is that I am going to leave my regular job to pursue a career in interpretive dance. My dances will all be interpretations of various colours of crayons that Crayola makes.

Shocking Pink is going to blow your mind(s).

Israel: It's hot there

In my head, I had always imagined all of Israel to look like something out of biblical times. You know, like this.

I thought there would be more sandals. Oh boy, did I ever think there would be more sandals. I did not see many sandals though. Actually, truth be told, I did not ever really pay attention to the footwear of others. In fact, I cannot recall having ever looked at the footwear of others while on the trip. And it turns out that people in Israel (or at least most people in Israel) stopped building houses out of piles of stones a long time ago.

My trip to the Middle Earth was full of Jesus, Bedouins and camels. Also, there was lots of wine.

I haggled for a hookah, covered myself in Dead Sea mud, poked a dead crab in the Sea of Galilee (it did not rise again, in spite of my best efforts) and saw lots of places where Jesus may or may not have visited/been born/been buried/ascended/etc.,.

Lessons learned: (1) adding "You mean, assuming that there was a Jesus.." to the end of what a tour guide is telling you is not necessarily a popular response when touring with a religious group and (2) there are some exceptionally attractive Jews in Jerusalem.

Out of office automated response

In Israel.

It is hot here.

Be back soon.

Pictures of my Stitches

It was 9:40 pm and I was right on schedule to by in bed by 10 pm. Beautiful. The only tasks I had to accomplish were (1) Walk the dog, (2) Do the dishes and (3) Take a shower (if I was feeling exceptionally ambitious).

"I will do the dishes first," I decided, as I was bound to lose interest in them once I walked the dog.

This proved to be a mistake.

I was halfway finished with my domestic engineering duties when the glass in my hand, for no apparent reason, broke in two. "Oh shit," I sighed, as I watched blood escape from a newly formed wound on my hand.

As I am wont to do with most injuries or medical issues, I took a picture and sent it to my nurse friends with the message, "Do you think this needs stitches?" And then waited patiently for an answer.

I decided that this was as good of a time as any to take the dog for his walk. He needed to go to the washroom and I needed to.. Well.. I needed to go to the hospital and didn't want to return to my apartment only to find a pile of dog shit on my dining room (a.k.a. bicycle room) floor. He had already pooped on the floor once that week (long work days + dogs with indigestion = bad things) and I was not keen on a repeat performance. So I slapped a generic bandage on that bad boy and headed outdoors.

People complain about Emergency Room wait times, and I can understand being moody and impatient when you are ill or a loved is ill, but, really, it is not so bad.

Sure... It was a work night and I sat in the ER, waiting, for five hours before I was taken to into an examination room, but Flashdance was playing on the television! It was practically worth cutting my hand open for that alone.

I waited in the examination room for another half of an hour before one of the Emergency Room doctors was able to see me. She was friendly and we made small talk while she tended to my wound. "I am just going to tack that back together," she told me. We'd been discussing the possibility of glueing my wound instead of stitching (please refer to this post to see the awesomeness of glue when it comes to wounds), so I was unsure which option she had decided to go with. I mean, the English major in me knows that "tack" typically refers to a temporary stitch, but it also refers to the quality of being sticky... which super glue is.

Even after she had injected my hand with freezing, I was still not sure which route the lady doctor would take. Perhaps she had an exceptional bedside manner and wanted to ensure my visit to the hospital was as painless as possible, even if she was just going to glue shit back in place. She had mentioned that sometimes glue did not work so well on joints, so, for the sake of my career as a (future) hand model and my reputation as a badass, I was crossing my uninjured fingers for stitches. And it worked!

It was 3:30 am by the time I was bandaged up and ready to go. I decided that I would make a half-hearted attempt to be at work for 9 am the next morning, but that I would realistically opt to sleep in instead. I was going to get sympathy no matter what, so it really didn't matter when I showed up.



The doctor had told me to leave the bandage on until "tomorrow." While at work, I argued with co-workers over when tomorrow was. "You got your stitches at 3 am. This means tomorrow is Friday," they all said. But the more I thought about my bandaged hand, the itchier it got and the more determined I was that Lady Doctor's definition of "tomorrow" was probably flexible.

When I finally took the bandage off of my hand, I was disappointed. It looked pretty wimpy. I mean, yes, of course I was totally badass now with three stitches, but the street cred it gave me was comparable to that which Martha Stewart received when she went to Camp Cupcake. So I made a decision right then and there: from now on, when anybody asked, instead of telling them how I really injured my hand, I would say that I got cut in a knife fight.


Will they believe me? Maybe yes, maybe no (probably no). They do not need to know that "knife fight" is code for doing the dishes. It is none of their business. Plus, I have stitches now. I am badass. People who are badass don't care about stuff like whether or not someone really believes that they were in a knife fight.

New challenge: drunk jogging.

Out of boredom, I have decided to take up drunken jogging. As normal jogging has never really held an interest for me, I feel like drunken jogging will open up a whole new door.

"But Megan," I am sure you are saying to yourself, "you cannot possibly expect to stay drunk throughout your entire run." And that is a good point, but I actually can expect to stay drunk throughout my entire run, and I will tell you how: I will fill my camel pack with amaretto and coke.

Will I vomit? Absolutely. Will it make me a better runner? I am going to have to go with no on this one. But will it make running more interesting? Probably... if only because it will make it that much more difficult to actually do the running in the first place. Will I fall over? Will I veer from one side of the the sidewalk to the other? Who knows, but it is pretty likely. Only time will tell for sure. 

Something to think about...

Every year, upon getting older, I make myself a list of things I hope to accomplish in that year of life. With a little under two months until my next birthday, I have started looking over my list in an attempt to see what else I can reasonably cross off.

If my calculations are correct, I could, in theory, put a line through another six of my goals. That would give me an 80% success rate for goals achieved in the 26th year of my life. I think that is pretty decent when you think about.

I have started thinking about goals for my upcoming year of life. As I will be turning twenty-seven, there will be twenty-seven of them. I am now accepting suggestions from the Internet.

I bake bread now

It's true. I do. I made that bread in the photo above. And it's not just any bread; it is fancy bread. Two loaves are sun-dried tomato and rosemary and the other two are caramelized onion.

I do not recall what inspired me to take on the challenge of becoming a baker of bread, but one day I said to myself, "Megan... It's time."

Bread making, I have found, is an art that takes time to perfect. Making the dough is relatively easy, but making the dough in such a way that it will rise properly and in the shape you intend it to look like post-oven is another story. And let us not even discuss the challenges of ensuring your bread is golden brown.

Needless to say, I have made probably about 20 loaves of bread in the last two weeks. That is not even an exaggeration. I have made at least two loaves of bread per day, every day.

"But Megan," I would imagine you are saying, "what ever are you doing with all of this bread?"

The answer is that I have been taking it to work and giving it to the people there. It makes me look like I am a great person when really I am just trying to pawn off my bread onto others. It is like I am an evil genius.

Reality Check

"I've gotten away with not shaving all week. I am not sure if I am going to break the cycle or stick to what's working," I said.

"You haven't gotten away with it all week. It's not working," she told me sternly.

Illusions shattered, I glanced down at my legs. Of course I could see the hair there, but do other people really pay that close attention when I am out and about?

Apparently, yes.

Incontinence Sunday

I paused, unsure what to do, as I made eye contact with the black and white beast.

A snake.

A snake in the stairwell of my apartment building.

What the fuck?!

As I have been an apartment dweller for nearly a year now, dog and I have a daily routine of going for walks so that he is able to evacuate his bladder and bowels in a location that is not my floor. This is why I found myself to be in that particular stairwell, at approximately 11 pm on a Sunday night, face-to-scaly-face with a two foot long snake that was very clearly not indigenous to the area.

The dog seemed confused. The snake seemed angry and frightened. I seemed questionably able to keep control over my own bowels.

"Come on, Dog," I said, slowly backing away, "I like the other set of stairs better anyway."

Later, I would post a warm-hearted, cleverly composed (in sparkly pen no less!) note to the mailroom door, in the hopes that whoever owned the snake would keep better tabs on it in the future and I would not have to worry about needing an underwear change upon returning from walks with my own beast.

And now I just wait for the money to roll in

One of my neighbours has this sign posted on her apartment door:

I decided that this was a good idea (time and paper saver!) and created a sign of my own:

In case you cannot read the above, it says: Willing to convert (religions or political affiliation) for cash.

Why it is best to only keep one window open at a time

"Go check your hotmail account," the email read, "I sent a photo to it. It is of (insert name here of mutual acquaintance here). I'm so disgusted I might throw up. And I wasn't even married to the man."

It was morning and I was at work. I try to avoid checking my personal email when at work, unless I have a specific reason to check it, because I like to pretend to be professional like that.

I did not know exactly what the photo would show, but I knew that it was likely something that I did not want to see and that I would never be able to unsee it.

"Yuck," I typed in response, "I do not want to look at that picture. Especially not at work." And then I hit "send" and went about my business.

For about thirty seconds.

Which is when I noticed that there was still a message window open on my desktop. A "reply" message window. A "reply" message window that was replying to the email that I had just been reading.

"Uh oh," I said aloud. Because if the reply message window to my friend's email was still open.. that would mean that I had just replied to an email from someone else..

I immediately went to my "sent messages" folder, found out who I had sent the message to and began damage control.

"Oops, sorry about that. That email was not meant to go to you. But what you had sent me was great! Let's go with that. Thanks for everything you are doing and keep up the good work!"

You see, when sending a damage control email out, it is important to acknowledge your mistake and then entirely change the subject of the message in order to make it seem like your faux-pas was not the primary motivation for sending another email.

I also made a ball out of rubber bands

She may be 75, but I do not care; I will crush her.

At work, we are having a pedometer challenge. I am currently sitting comfortably in second place, behind one of our volunteers.

I would be number one still had I not gotten sick and then essentially been immobile for two weeks in India. But I did get sick, and I was stuck in a hotel room for the better part of two weeks. And now, I am 200,000 steps behind the 75-year-old stepping wonder.

"I will crush your spirits like the bones of an elderly woman suffering from osteoporosis," I tell her each time I see her. It's cool to say these kinds of things to her because we both know that, even though she is 49 years older than me, she could easily take me in a knife fight - and I would fight her with knife. I'd need it if I wanted to win.

One of my favourite parts of my job is the interaction I have with coworkers and volunteers. I am in charge of communications, so, in theory, socializing while at work actually falls under my job description.

Other things I have done at work (both on and off the clock):

• Played Hide-and-go-Seek with small children
• Plastic wrapped a vehicle
• Weeded
• Moved furniture
• Baked cookies
• Shoveled snow
• Transported myself from one end of the building to the other by doing walking lunges (multiple times)
• Tied ribbon around plants
• Created memos that read "You smell," and signed them using an electronic copy of my boss's signature
• Playfully threatened the elderly
• Started a fight club (so far, I am the only one in the fight because the first rule of fight club is don't talk about fight club and this kind of makes a membership drive tough)

Soon I will be able to add "made cotton candy" to that list. Yeah... That's right, I'm going to make cotton candy. You should be jealous of me for everything job related except how much I am actually paid.

Cake Farts

"You know what I like the best?" the video starts. No, strange, pant-less woman on my computer screen, I do not know what you like the best. However, based on the name of your website, I feel comfortable guessing that it involves cakes and flatulence.

Why was I on a website that had anything to do with cake farts? Well, a coworker told me to go there and I am just very obedient... or stupid.

I could not watch the whole video, even though it was only one minute and fifteen seconds long. After all, the woman had no pants (or underwear!) on and was about to climb aboard a kitchen counter along side a cake. I had a sick feeling in my stomach regarding what would happen next.

I do not care how funny it may be, I do not want to see anyone farting on cakes. Cakes are made to be eaten, not farted on. In fact, I would argue that very few things are meant to be farted on - but cakes are, like, way, way up there on that list.

Bicycle Room

I no longer have a bicycle room in my apartment.

Wait, what? I never told you about my bicycle room? Oh.

Well, I used to have a room in my apartment that contained just my bicycle and exercise bike. I called this room the bicycle room.

Why did I store nothing but bicycles (stationary and mobile) in this room? The answer is pretty simple: I just do not have that much stuff.

And so, I kept my bicycles in that room and, when bored, I would ride my bicycle around the room. It was an exceptionally short loop, but it helped pass the time. Eventually, I decided against indoor bicycling because the sound of tires on hardwood is kind of annoying.

Midnight Runs

I grimaced as I felt the crunch beneath my shoe.

A snail.

A casualty of my late night jog.

The sidewalk glistened under the streetlights, still wet from the rain that had poured down upon them from morning until early evening.

I remember when I was much younger, after the rain, the smell of the juniper bushes in my grandparents' front yard. My grandfather would take great pride in stepping on the snails as they tried to escape the wetness all around them.

I do not enjoy crushing snails. In fact, the rest of my jog, I am especially mindful of where I step in an attempt to prolong the lives of many snails and worms who are out of their homes and sharing this evening with me.

Journey to India: Part Three

In case you were wondering, I did not burst anything pooping.

Actually, that may not be entirely true. An excerpt from my travel journal would probably indicate otherwise:

March 21, 2011

Today we went to Agra. This involved waking up early in the morning and catching a cab to Lemon Tree Hotel to pick up my aunt and uncle. However, I will not remember this day forever as the day I saw the Taj Mahal. Instead, I will remember it as the day I shit blood.

And the day I shook hands with a monkey.

Journey to India: part two

My last post was composed of what I had written in my journal while making my way from Toronto to Delhi. I had decided to keep a journal of my trip because it would make me appear deep and thoughtful to others. "Excuse me," I would say, "I must go write in my journal."

Anyway, the thing about a journal is that it only makes sense to have one if you are actually doing things. I am not doing things. Essentially, my trip to India has involved a lot of naps and some mild traveller's diarrhea. At least I think it is traveller's diarrhea. It could just be regular diarrhea. Either way, I have made several people very uncomfortable by starting to talk about it when they ask what I am up to. And yet I do, and also dedicate pages upon pages to it in my journal.

My journal entries largely talk about my poop or what I had for lunch. Some of them make note of the difference in standards of living between India and home. If anything, I would say that a lot of people in India are utilitarian. They make use of the space and resources they have to the best of their ability. Of course, this is a huge generalization, but I like making huge generalizations when I have nothing else to write about.

Journey to India: Part One

The plane to Chicago is small. So small that my already small carryon bag required checking for the duration of the trip. I am worried that they will forget to give it back to me and that I will have no carryon for my flight to India. If this is occurs, I will be pissed off.

They say that, if an accident is going to happen, it will be during takeoffs or landings. I am impartial to takeoffs, but landings are my favourite.

All of my snacks are in my carryon. They better not lose that bag or else, in addition to being pissed off, I will be hungry. I love snacks.

As the plane makes its way down the runway, bumping along as it goes, I can't help but wonder if it will add steps to my pedometer. I hope not. That would be cheating when it comes to the pedometer challenge at work. I plan to come in second place at work based on nothing but my hardwork and the time I devote to putting others to shame, not because the pedometer can't tell the difference between a plane taking off and my hips moving while I walk.

I always worry that I will vomit during take off. Actually, I pretty much just always worry that I will vomit in general. The flight attendant says that our cruising altitude will be 3,500 meters, or maybe feet. I wasn't really listening. I have trouble paying attention.

It is now 5 pm and I think that we are nearly at cruising altitude. The pilot says that we can now use cell phones. I wonder if it is long distance to call Toronto from 3,500 meters (feet?) above it.

The guy in front of me just reclined his chair. I may now officially be trapped in my seat. I cannot tell if this would be better or worse in the occurrence of a crash.

The flight attendant wanted to know if I would like a beverage with ice in it. I declined. I have seen many programs on tv that expressed how much bacteria is in the ice on planes. Besides, I am not that thirsty anyway.

We are currently flying over a large body of water and should be arriving in Chicago within the next twenty minutes or so. I am so hungry that I think my stomach could go on tour with Cher and provide back up vocals.

It is 6:03 pm and John, the flight attendant, has been instructed by the pilot to prepare the cabin for landing. Now, I don't want to be presumptuous, but I think this means we are very nearly there.

I get the feeling that the plane ride to India will be both long and boring. Especially if my carryon gets lost and I cannot have snacks.

6:17 pm: we have landed.

My bag is safe and back in my possession. I have found my gate, K12, and I am now seated in the waiting area. All in all, so far things are proceeding according to schedule, but I am hungry and have a slight headache.

The voice telling people about proper procedure to follow while in the airport sounds suspiciously like Oprah. I will further investigate this when I return home. Unless I forget (I will probably forget). As for now, I will wait.

Apparently our 7:30 pm departure has been pushed back to 8:15 pm.

It is now 8:03 pm and we have yet to start boarding. I feel this is a good thing because my stomach has been doing back flips. I am nervous. I do not really know why, but I am. I would just like to get up in the air and out of here. The longer we wait, the more anxious I get. I may end up popping a second Ativan before I even make it to my seat.

I was wrong before. I said it was 8:03 pm when really I had gone back in time an hour when I arrived in Chicago. It is now 8:17 pm Chicago time and we are heading down the runway. I made a friend in the lounge, but we got separated when boarding the plane because her carryon was just too large. I do not know if I will ever see her again, but I did give her my sister's cell phone number because she asked for it politely and I have problems saying no.

My seatmate seems nice. I am in 25H and he is in whatever comes after that. Though we have not taken off yet, he is already asleep. I have learned that we share something in common: we are both mouth breathers. Back when he was conscious, I confided in him that I have gronala bars in my carryon. He looks like a nice enough guy, so I told him I would share. I only brought the strawberry and mocha flavours because the other option contained nuts and I felt this might present problems.

8:35 pm Chicago time and we are lifting off... or maybe Chicago is experiencing an earthquake? 

I have to say that I am kind of impressed with myself for being able to write all of this legibly while barreling down the runway.

The sound of the plane's wings moving about reminds me of having my teeth cleaned at the dentist - whirling and what not. Thankfully, no one is trying to put their hands in my mouth. That would just be awkward this early into the flight.

Don't tell anyone this, but I kind of enjoy mild turbulence. Not major turbulence (that stuff makes me want to hurl). But when the plane jostles around just a little bit, enough to wake up sleeping passengers and cause them to make confused faces, I can't help but smile. It warms my heart.

It is after 9:30 pm Chicago time and dinner has been served. There were many different types of beans involved and I can't help but wonder if eating my meal will turn out to be a mistake in the long run. I plan to go to the bathroom in about half of an hour and then attempt to get some sleep.

The woman in front of me has reclined her seat. I would like to recline mine as well, but I am not an asshole.

It is 10:49 pm Chicago time, which is 11:49 pm at home. This means we've been flying for about 2.5 hours. I haven't gone to the bathroom yet, but I plan on doing that relatively soon. My plan of attack is to stay awake until about 2 am home time and then sleep for 2 hour blocks after that.

My nose is getting a little dry, so I think I will use the nasal spray I bought.

12:40 am, approximately: I peed in the washroom. It was tiny. It was wet. But it didn't smell bad. I also used nasal spray.

It is now 8:46 am home time. The cabin has been dark for a while now and I am pretty sure I have been wooing those around me with open mouth sleeping and mouth breathing. In theory, we will get breakfast soon and will land in about two hours. The flight really hasn't been all that bad, but next time I am putting my carryon up top. I cannot afford to sacrifice any legroom on a flight this long.

Stay Tuned for Journey to India: Part Two

Keeping You Posted

Guys:

I am leaving for India on Sunday.

I'll let you know if I get diarrhea.

We'll just have to save, I guess.

"If you need to," he typed, "take tomorrow off. We can't afford to get others dick."

It was hard (pun intended) to resist writing something witty back ("Has the price of dick gone up?"), but I did.

Typos are funny. Especially when they are from your boss.

To be fair, anyone could give me the injection

"Hold on just one second," I said into the receiver as I waved down a colleague. "If I wanted to get a B12 injection, could you give it to me?" I asked.

"Yes, that is something I could easily do," she replied.

"And would you have to give it to me in the bum, or could I get it in the arm?" I asked.

"I can only give it to you in the ass," she said, narrowing her eyes. I swallowed visibly before she took pity on me. "I am just kidding. I could give it to you in the arm," she finally said.

"Okay, thank you!" I shouted to her as she walked away and then I returned to my phone call. "Sorry," I said into the phone, "I had an important question. That was one of the nurses," I explained.

"I had hoped so," replied a voice from within the phone.

Sisterly Love

"Hello?" I answered.

"There is some weird shit going on here," she whispered.

"Like thousands of dead birds and fish weird, or is it something else?"

"No, like the power is off and I do not know what is going on. And then I turned on my computer and on the main screen there is a naked picture of me," she said flatly.

"Are you drunk?"

"No. There are naked pictures of me," she repeated.

"On the Internet, or just on your computer?" I asked.

"Do you know who took this picture?" she asked me, as if genuinely looking for an answer.

"Ugh, no," I replied. "You are in India. I am in Canada. I do not know who is taking naked photos of you."

"I am not naked in the picture," she sighed.

"You are the one who told me there is a naked photo of you on your computer screen."

"There is!" she exclaimed, "it's me! With my tits out! Where did it come from?!"

"I have no idea where it came from. And there is no way that you are not drunk right now. Are you awake in the photo? Do you appear to be aware in the photo that it is being taken?" I asked, but, alas, my questions were met with a series of indiscernible mumblings and silence.

A few minutes later, I think she said something about crawling under the bed to either hide or die, but I could not tell you for certain.

I am pretty sure this is her way of letting me know that she misses me and is excited about my upcoming visit in March.

Next step: get a raise

Each morning, the staff meets to tell each other how we are feeling.

"I am well," I always say, because that is the grammatically correct thing to do. Some days, I interject additional comments into my morning reports. "I am not sure that I am actually doing as well as I think I am because this morning, when I first entered the building, I realized that my shirt was on inside out. I had to go into one of the washrooms and switch it around before anyone noticed."

Other days, I tell my coworkers about shaving my legs or exciting things that I have eaten. "Here is the bad news though," I whisper, "when I got here, I realized I only managed to shave one of my legs. Guess which one...."

Based on the number of Christmas cards I received this year, I feel that I am fitting in well. I have experienced nearly a year of full time employment and still generally enjoy waking up each morning to go into work.

The cat ate my pot

The President is an addict.

There. I've said it.

One day, a coworker gave me a little bag full of catnip. "Here," she'd said, "I found this in my cabinet yesterday. I don't have cats anymore, so I thought you might like to have it."

And so I brought the catnip home and put it in the drawer of one of my bedside tables. I proceeded to go out (I forget where) for a couple of hours, trusting that all would still be right with the world when I returned home.

It wasn't though. I opened the door to my apartment only to find it entirely disheveled. As I am not always the best of housekeepers, this did not overly worry me until I looked at my bedroom. The cat was laying on the middle of my bed, eyes wide and glassy. Scattered all around my bedroom was catnip and shredded pieces of plastic from what had once been the bag containing the catnip.

Oh yeah, there was lots of cat vomit too. There was cat vomit on the dog's bed. There was cat vomit on the floor in front of the door. There was cat vomit in my closet. There was cat vomit on the top of my dresser. Essentially, the cat had made a game out of vomiting as many places as he could.

"You have a problem," I told him sternly. After all, he had actually figured out a way to open up my side table and remove the catnip from it.

Needless to say, I decided not to enable his habit and have since ensured that he has zero contact with catnip. And this all seemed to be working fine. The cat, no longer able to access his drug of choice, turned to other ventures and took up hobbies like pulling at my area rug and crocheting. All was right with the world again... until a few hours ago.

You see, Internet, it was a few hours ago that I entered my bedroom only to find my feline companion sprawled out on my bed, chewing on a plastic bag that contained some of the marijuana that I am obviously just holding for a friend. "You douche bag!" I exclaimed. "That is not yours!" The cat did not care though. The cat does as he pleases, and, knowing he is an addict, I should have known better than to keep anything like that around him.

I am pretty sure that marijuana does absolutely nothing for cats, but I will state that the cat has spent the last two hours literally running from one end of the apartment to the other. This is fairly standard behaviour for him, but usually he does not do it at 4 am (or at least not while I am awake).