For those of you who've read this blog for a while, you may have noticed a sort of hyperbole and psychotic flowery quality to my language. I'm also a bit of a philosophical hedonist, if you haven't picked up on that.
This is by no means limited to the written word and is actually quite a bit worse in person since I can't backspace over terrible things and it's how I both entertain myself and cope with stressful situations. Also why it's great to be in a profession populated by people who can handle me.
I'm telling you this to tell you about a birthday present. Several months ago, I was wine tasting with my roommate and her boyfriend in one of those cute types of shops with wine and wine accessories and lots of sort of expensive things that allow you to say "I enjoy drinking". And I do. My roommate is a type that tailors things to herself and her interests quite well and brings it all together in a way that is fashionable, individual, and fun. This is less how I roll. So when we got on the topic of wine glasses, I said something along the lines of "I'd love to have a wine glass that really says *me* all over it, but they don't make them with naked werewolves on them", then promptly forgot the comment.
Speechless. I mean. It's a wine glass of shirtless Alcides. No one else on earth has a wine glass of shirtless Alcides. She and her boyfriend conspired to create something so perfect for me that if I left it in a cafe in Bali, weeks later I would get an email saying "We found your glass." If archeologists dig this glass up in a thousand years, they will be able to perfectly derive everything about my personality from this single artifact. They'll probably even be able to guess that I was a pathologist.
This brings me to a few conclusions. One, the idea that all my glib comments can be brought to life is both wonderous and terrifying, because while it does mean I will indeed die as I am buried alive under a mountain of double chocolate porter, Butter Lane cupcakes and shirtless dudes, it *also* means that a seven foot palmetto bug will, at some point, pin me against a wall and take my purse.
Other conclusions... I have heard a lot of roommate bitching from the masses since living alone is something only the 1% can continue to do, but I have been blessed by the great roommate god on high because I have lucked out every single frigging time.
Grenada: First roommate, from the islands, shows me around, makes kingfish curry, is generally cool despite me living in a phobia clad sleep deprived geek cloud.
Prague: Find roommate from lower term off facebook within about 24 hours. Wind up with roommate who makes coffee every morning and saves it for me and who speaks (and is) Russian so can translate. Also introduces me to Hoegaarden, because she wasn't being great enough.
New York: I live with the cooking, cleaning, decorating oracle of party finding awesomeness and spend two years in a cloud of burlesque and happy hours. Started learning about fashion.
Fire house: two roommates. One can cook everything from scratch and is eager to teach the same. The other is a die hard Star Wars aficionado with an awesome dog who finds chicken and waffle diners and likes to have bonfires in the back yard and play Mario Kart.
Current house: Makes me wine glasses with naked werewolves on them.
I'm holding out that my fellowship roommate will carry me on his/her shoulders at all times while making horsey noises, but that could be asking a bit much.