tl:dr.......lol

I’ve been thinking for ages that I should create a new blog post, not that anyone reads this, but I live in hope that one day they might and so some actual content will be useful.

But every time I think I’d like to sit and write something, I realise I have nothing to say.  At least nothing outrageously hilarious to say, and I feel that anecdotal blogs need to be real knee-slappers to keep people entertained or my posts will be relegated to the “tl:dr” pile, which some of you will know means “Too long; didn’t read” in internet language.

Being a self-professed (and universally loathed) grammar nazi, and also an actual adult, it has taken me a long time to get used to all these abbreviations that have been plastered all over the internet and in text messages.  

I used to be of the belief, and I know I’m not alone here that “lol” meant “lots of love” and so sent many a message to friends that were probably wildly inappropriate.

The thing that bugs me about “lol”, or the more exaggerated “rofl” (Rolling On Floor Laughing) is that more often than not, it is a COMPLETE AND TOTAL LIE!  

Back in the old days, say 2007 or so, when msn messenger was popular (at least for me) and people used to send me a “lol” or a “rofl”, my response was always the same: Really?  Are you REALLY rolling on the floor laughing?  Are you really laughing out loud.

To that end, I coined my own, much more plausible response when someone sent me something mildly humorous.  It was “cq”. 

Cq, if you haven’t already guessed, stands for chuckling quietly.

“Oh the funniest thing just happened.  I saw a cat get run over”

“cq”

“huh?”

“chuckling quietly”

“don’t you think it’s funny?”

“I think it’s HILARIOUS, you know how much I love a good dead cat story, but

I don’t like to lie about my reactions, so I’m cq”

            “oh….so….you’re just…..I have to go now”

And they would promptly run off and regale their other online friends with their hilarious tale of squished cat bits all over the road, to which everyone undoubtedly replied “OMFG ROFL WWYH TTYL!!!” thus validating the storyteller.

I had hoped that cq would catch on with the same fervour as lol and that I would become the celebrated and heavily financially compensated hero of the internet. Sadly, it did not catch on at all and to this day I am still grateful to my internet pal, Leonie Mitaxa, who at least it tried to use it in textual intercourse.

The other thing that bugs me about lol or the more exuberant rofl, is the insincerity of it.

I’ve discovered recently that you can say anything you like to somebody, but as long as you put those three (or four if you’re really trying to drive the point home) little letters on the end, then you can pretty much get away with anything!

Case in point, if I send one of my rather large and more intimidating friends the following text: “You’re such a big fairy and your mother is a tramp,” then I can reasonably expect to be physically hurt, or at the very least, verbally admonished and stricken from the Christmas card list before the end of an illegal download has gone by.

However, if I slightly rephrase the statement to: “You’re such a big fairy, lol, and your mother is a tramp. Hehe,” then I rather imagine even the largest of my no-necked friends would at the very least find themselves cq and will undoubtedly reply with “Rofl. You’re such a card”.

So am I alone in this?  Is anyone else as perplexed and as outraged as I am about the blatant lack of actual words in common usage on the internet?

Soon I will post a new blog with how many of these abbreviations I have misunderstood and then humiliated myself by either using them incorrectly with hilarious consequences, or by telling others what they mean only to discover I have been spreading horrendous LIES

TTFN.

A Letter to my Body

Dear My Body,

I know I've put you through a lot over the years; stretched you beyond your limit, starved you, burned you, overworked you, exhausted you and have now left you scarred, in what can only be described as an apparent attempt to give you that "lived in" look. In return you've chosen to be susceptible to many diseases, given me poor skin and even poorer eyesight, robbed me of the ability to tan and have now, it seems, decided that my hair is no longer necessary.

But let's face it, we're both getting older and we need to start working together if we're going to last.

You may have noticed in the last week that I have attempted a peace offering by feeding you more regularly with wholesome and nutritious food, have taken you out twice a day for some fresh air and exercise, and have given you ample opportunity for rest and recovery during these school holidays.

But in order for these things to be of full benefit to you, I'm going to need you to co-operate.

I realise trust has to be built over time and that one week is perhaps not enough for you to see my good intentions, but all I ask is that you give a little in return. You might find it benefits you just as much as it helps me.

I have forgiven you for your more recent discrepancies, such as, in what can only be described as a nasty attempt at a military coup, forcibly removing my vocal range without explanation. I've also seen reason and will grant you amnesty for denying me the ability to breathe normally when I place you in a horizontal position. And as for that stomach tear/hernia that incapacitated me last year, not to mention the swine flu.....all forgotten.

So, to that effect, when I stand up today, I would ask that you do not try to force me back down by the neck and cause me to hunch over. And if the first few steps I take whilst trying to walk anywhere could be much more fluid and less shuffl-ey, I'd be much obliged.

My long term goals for our strengthened relationship would be to be able to take you out for longer runs that don't result in active mutiny on your part via the means of calf knots or decreased lung capacity after a measly 2 kilometres.

Think of those happy times when we would be able to enjoy the sun and fresh air for those 10km runs with an almost laughable casuality. Oh happy days gone by!

So, I promise to no longer subject you to ridiculous attempts at twisting and manipulating you beyond the normal human range of motion for the average man if you will promise to stop over-reacting and panicking whenever I take you for more mundane forms of exercise.

I look forward to reaping the benefits of this mutually beneficial relationship.

Yours sincerely,

Mark

P.s - I don't want to push my luck, but about the hair; Can you at least try to maintain a grip? I know how much it loves the adrenaline rush that comes with a 1.78m free-fall, but you need to sit it down and explain that it will DIE upon impact, so it's best to just stay put.

One Fully Healed Mangina

So here it is, 6 years later, all healed up.  Notice the outlying white scars next to the main one. That's where the stitches popped.

Creation of the Mangina - The Conclusion

……Needless to say, I don’t.

So the next day I’m on the phone trying to figure out exactly how much and how frequently I’m supposed to be medicating myself.  Any previous side effects of medication are nothing compared to this new lot and I finally get the rest I should have taken initially because even the slightest movements, such as the beating of my mutinous heart, bring on galactic storms of nausea.

 My housemate uses my “paralysis-of-the-intestinal-preservation” to run creative ideas by me for a new show she wants to do, all of which are probably very good, but sound positively hideous as they at least involve moving off the couch and right now I don’t want to think about that.

Anyway, two weeks later (and more than a month now since the initial injury) and I’m getting my stitches removed again and yup, you guessed it, it just pops right back open, right down to the bone.  The outpatients doctor is baffled, whereas I’m just about vomiting at the idea of even more stitches.  However, she decides to let it heal by “secondary intention” (which is a fancy way of saying “do nothing”) and so slaps a bandage on it, tells me to be careful and come back in two weeks.

I leave the hospital, get in my car and apparently completely ignore her first instruction as I smack my shin against the underside of the dashboard.  For the first time in this whole saga, I am in SERIOUS PAIN.  There’s some fairly colourful language, that Lamaze breathing technique you inadvertently do when you’re trying to make the pain go away (just the “hee hee” part, not the “hoo hoo”) and much grinding of forehead on steering wheel.

The next two months are spent grossing people out by tapping on my shin bone with my car key in a vain attempt to create an air of intrigue about myself (“I can do something you can’t do – LOVE ME!”) and also using the mangina to my advantage by poking some of the fleshier parts right before a shift at the restaurant, causing it to bleed badly enough so that I can walk in, roll up my trouser leg and say “Can I please go home and clean this up?”.  That last comment might cause you to think I’m into self harm, but not so. By this point the nerve endings in the wound are pretty much completely dead, so there’s no pain at all. Does that make it better or worse? Meh, who knows?

Finally, at the end of March, I go to the funeral of my friend’s dad. I haven’t seen this particular friend for a while as he was living interstate, but he’s heard all about the gaping hole in my shin. His wife is a doctor and is alarmingly attracted to, and fascinated by, the grossness and hideousness of injury and disease.  She asks to look at it, and as I pull my bandage down, her voice rings clear across the cemetery for all to hear:

 “Ha ha, you’ve got a MANGINA!!”

The End.

Creation of the Mangina - Part 4

So guess where I ended up on the Monday morning? If you guessed I was storming caves in Afghanistan looking for Osama/Saddam/WMD’s/Doughnuts then you’d be quite wrong.

No, I am back at the Emergency department of the Geelong hospital where I am quickly transferred to a plastic surgeon who is supposedly going to take some skin from my bottom and put it in the mangina.  Luckily I have not had breakfast this morning (all New Year’s resolutions became null and void as soon as I hit the tow-bar) and so I can have surgery that day.

The rest of the day is spent in waiting rooms reading various magazines, most of which contain fascinating articles about Nicole Kidman that vastly contradict each other.  I’m eventually moved into a bed where I have to change into one of those gowns that are made from the same material as Chux Superwipes, and a nurse offers to bring me a magazine.  I inform her I’ve read all the ones with Nicole Kidman on the cover and upon her return, she mournfully tells me that there aren’t any others.  Then she checks my heart rate and tells me I have a low resting pulse which is apparently a really good thing.  I want to tell her that since I’ve been sitting doing nothing in a waiting room all day long, anything above 2bpm (that’s “beats per minute” for the lay-folk) should be cause for concern.

Then I am wheeled, yes wheeled, despite my ability to walk normally, to the operating room, although I’m pretty certain it is the corridor outside the operating room. Four people adorned in masks and gowns surround me and one of them injects something into the line that was previously placed into the back of my hand.

The next hour or so is pretty hazy.  I was fully conscious, and all my senses were working perfectly, but I was completely unable to retain information given to me at the time. The best way I can think to describe it is the same physical sensation as being absolutely rip-roaring drunk, but without developing that level of reasoning that makes you crave hot dogs at 3am before sitting on the ground and crying unashamedly.

The doctors tell me that they’re not going to take my bottom flesh after all, but I can’t remember what they say they’re actually going to do within 10 seconds of them saying it. I’m lying down and my knee is bent with my foot flat on the bed so they can attack the mangina front on.  I can feel scalpels, fingers and needles in and around the mangina, but it doesn’t hurt at all. I desperately want to look at what they’re doing, but they won’t let me.

Next thing I know I’m in another waiting room, mangina stitched up for a third time, and my housemate is on her way to pick me up.  The nurse gives me some medication and some very specific instructions about when to take it.  She offers to write it down, but I assure her I’ll remember…..