Paper Gowns

I don’t think anybody goes to the dermatologist happy.
I mean, you have to strip down to your underwear and shiver in the cold, dead hospital air as a nurse takes pictures of you in said questionably disrobed state, marking the dots upon your back with her eyes, great intent for your dermal demise gleaming within them.
I arrived this morning to find that the office had moved from its previous location, so my deep and intense knowledge of the office from that one time I came with my parents many years prior was washed away and irrelevant.
Perfect.

My mother was called back first, leaving me to discuss things with the receptionists, who had previously been discussing cysts that had not been properly drained on patients who I assume are now moderately famous in the social sphere surrounding this delightful department.

As I was sitting, happily tapping away at my iPod like some stereotypical teen in a commercial advertising safe texting, i.e. not driving, a receptionist leaned over the formica countertop, and asked if I was on any medication. “Uhhh…” I managed to reply. Better than my usual stare.
"Well, do you have allergies?" (She was very helpful on my journey to self discovery.)
I replied telling her that I believe I am on Zyrtec, but I don’t know. It’s there, and I take it.
A+ answer.

"Do you smoke or chew tobacco?"
"I don’t think so." (Once again, fabulous reply.)
"Do you drink at all?"
"No ma’am, not that I’m aware."

I clearly know a lot about myself as evidenced by these answers.
Moments later I was to find myself in a room, instructed to take off my clothes and put on a gown with a thing that is supposed to be tied in the back. I didn’t realize that this feature was even there. It’s times like this that I am amazed by people’s ingenuity, you know? I mean, what a time to be alive, when the gowns have little things you can tie to show only select parts of
yourself.

The waiting continued for a good while, and it was at this time that I began to wonder what would be the end result of these reference pictures, should they take them.
Would they get sold to a creepy trucker for $50 a pop? Is that what my body is worth?

Obviously I don’t do well in small rooms alone. Unless it is my own, and I have a computer. Then I can express my greatest fears to my friends through the internet. It’s more comforting to complain to people who can’t physically walk away from you. They can just say they have to go eat or something and you would then have no reason to not believe them.

Then, it happened.
They came.
The reference pictures were taken, and I smiled and was polite.
All in all it was quite uneventful.


If anything, I regret not having a selfie with the dermatologist greatly. He looks strangely like Rainn Wilson. With white hair. He also sounds like Rainn Wilson. And acts. Just. Like. Him.  
Perhaps he labels his yoghurt?

But alas, as quickly as it happened, it was over, and I was once again sitting in the waiting room, my mother finishing paperwork as I pored curiously over the pamphlets displayed for me to admire, and I guess learn from.

“Oral retinoid therapy.” (I’ll have to google this, because I’m curious now.)

“Young people and psoriasis.” (Should I ever feel flaky, I’ll read this further. Or maybe I won’t… or will I?)

“Hair loss and restoration.” (If I should lose my magnificent mane I will not be needing a slip of informational paper to console me. I will take much more drastic measures.)

And then there was one simply called “Warts.”   (I can’t completely say this wouldn’t be worth looking at.)

Let my tale of the dermatologist comfort the souls of all of you. May your skin be clear, and your moles be ever so consistent as I have been told mine are.

Have a good rest of your day.

-Ranger. 

let me write about you

Let me write about you.

Let my mind that won't shut up hold its tongue as your presence provides an escape I must apologize for. 

Remain silent, hum softly, be, and let me write about you. 

Let my muse borrow yours for a while and watch as they run off to go do something i can't imagine but feel physically so vividly as the power to be more than in the precise moment escapes both of us. 

Literally i beg you let me fill my head with air and scrawl my treasured nothings upon the yellowed paper dredged up from a basket of professionalism. 

Can I hum along too because i rather like the song that swirls around your mind. (And when I do get around to writing about you I promise that I will let you peek, but I don't want to because then I think you'll want yourself back.)

Thank You.

Today I am using this place for the rightest of reasons. 

Today the internet lost a pioneer and a good friend. 

And that seems like such concrete fact. 

I should say who it is I am talking about, too. 

Mr. Peter Oakley, perhaps better known as geriatric1927 was, and in a sense, still is, one of the most influential YouTubers, as well as someone who inspired and encouraged me to create and write and make music and to keep doing whatever it is that I do and upload it to the internet to somehow be shared. 

And I didn't get to properly thank him. 

But then I know that even if I did, I still wouldn't feel as if I did. 

And that says a lot. 

I don't really feel sad. 

Of course I feel sad for his family, and I will miss him, but I don't feel sad. Not in a way that perhaps I should. 

Had I known Mr. Oakley in a world where he didn't have his YouTube channel, I would be incredibly sad, in a way that perhaps I should. 

I would feel that the world had lost someone, a perspective filled with history forever. 

But I don't feel that way. 

His YouTube channel has 434 videos. 

Videos in which he tells his life story, from the past and to the present, an archive from someone who was so honest and genuine and kind to so many that even now his creations can inspire others to do the same, to get those who they want to share, elderly or young, to  make accessible their lives. 

To make the world perhaps better. 

To make knowledge truly global. 

To make personal lives shown honestly and truthfully to others in a way that will give an understanding of connection in a connected world of disconnect. 

To simply be, and still inspire. 

I think that is what the internet is for. 

On so many levels I feel that and I know it has its seedy underbelly and things that are damaging to all involved and yet I forgive it wholly because there are so many great things and people and things that can build us up and cause us to crumble and stories that will sweep us up and reconstruct us and anything imaginable. 

Things that without people like him, would not exist. 

Thank you, Peter, for all that you did, have done, and continue to do. 

-Ranger. 

different

Something feels different and i don't like it ---

i don't like that the sameness feels different.

i don't like that i know that the sameness feels different, 

different than the actual different which is me shoving you out of a chair in the middle of the night, spinning around, tripping over stuff we dropped wherever we felt with a pillow draped over my head while wondering how horses sleep that way. 

It's different than hearing you read things i adore that make me smile weirdly like every character of so many books that i hate, hanging onto every syllable that you let slip forth from wherever it is you get those words. 

This difference hurts because it's not sameness no matter how much i want it to fit the label of that weird clump of letters, because i'm too damn scared to see if it will, so i'll just let it exist as it has and hope that when i'm ready to peel that sticker it'll stick. 

Oh look, a blog post.

I wish that I knew how to blog in a way that doesn't seem like I am blogging, but rather blog in a way that is me speaking to you and you listening to me speaking to you so fluid like the words of someone you love that you don't think you'll ever see, trickling into your ears like syrup or something you find delectable, stickier than this prose that is not. 

I guess I could try that here.  It is possible that I will be able to make words you will enjoy and share, and return to consume. But, it is more highly possible that my lack of grammatical skill and shoddy syntax will leave you with a lingering bad first impression. 

I will of course cling to the hope that something comes of this though. 

Know that if you do find yourself following this page, I might potentially persuade others to contribute, preventing you from having my presence flow onto your feed whenever my hands feel inclined to slap they keyboard in a manner pretentious enough for this site held dear to those who post tea mugs, fandoms, and blogs with yiff in the name to sound edgy, not to mention the blogs that contain all of these things in the same post containing only one image drawn by a single hand. 

This is a blog with a layout blander than a hospital wall, the contents resembling an OIan Mills background. 

This is a blog on which I wish I knew how to blog. 

-Ranger. 

hai

swggity swupdate it's an.. update?
that didn't work.

Novelistic thoughts; or where big words attempt to impress.

Although it probably just seems really silly, I think I have a fear of dying alone.   

That's it.  I don't want to die alone.         

Another thing is that I surround myself with too many thoughts like these when I am alone.  I can't let them take over my mind, so I have to find someone to take them away from me.  Yet, it seems like when they leave me, they return them as if they are a morbid memento of what once was, as a parting gift, and when I open up the box that holds them, I find out that they have multiplied.

~A small sliver of my novel, still a mere collection of words yet to be completed.

-Ranger.