I almost died of Lyme Disease tonight.

My name is Anna. I have a red, itchy, uncharacteristically warm arm that houses something akin to a bull's-eye rash. The rash has produced one large streak that travels from my elbow up to my shoulder. The pain isn't just topical; it has infiltrated my ligaments as well.

After talking with my mom (a nurse) and dad (a doc) about the condition of my arm I called the nurse's hot line of my old student health services. A nurse advised me to go to urgent care tomorrow, and here's what she said when I told her I couldn't go in tomorrow because of a work conflict: "Fine. Then you absolutely have to go tonight." So I did.

As it turns out, my rash that exactly resembles the rash of those suffering from Lyme Disease, is likely not from an insect bite but rather from some bacteria that mysteriously entered my arm. And the streak leading up to my shoulder is the bacteria trying as hard as it can to reach the lymph nodes, which fight off the bacteria.

So don't worry. Although I almost became Irene* from Real World Seattle, I dodged the bullet in the end. Stephen will not be slapping me!**



*Irene's experiences a relapse of Lyme Disease. She eventually moved out of the house, ostensibly over health concerns over the disease, but years later, during a reunion show for the various casts of The Real World, she appeared in a video in which she aired her criticisms of the show and her bitterness regarding her time on it.

**In one of the most dramatic and controversial moments in Real World history, Irene McGee's housemate, Stephen Williams, having been insulted by McGee as she was moving out, stopped her car as she was leaving, opened the passenger side door, and slapped her. Williams was ordered by producers to attend a series of anger management classes, which he is then shown to complete successfully.

Owie.

I fell off my bike.

And by fell off, I mean I was hurled many feet in the air when my back brake graciously decided to stick against the wheel, forcing me over the handlebars and onto the pavement where I proceeded to roll and skid with my bike somehow on top of me, bruising the frick out of my legs.

Here is a gross visual.

Regardless of what it looks like, Wolverine did not in fact have his way with my leg. I'm guessing those four scratches were somehow from the pedal?

I wish I could tell you this was the first time I fell off my bike. But I guess when your pimp ride is a 12-year-old Diamondback Outback, aka The Steel Behemoth, aka piece of crap bike, this kind of stuff happens more often than the average biker would like.
I need a new bike.

I could kill T-mobile.

My phone hasn't rung for months. But you know what? I loved my little pebl. He was cuter than most phones. And you could hold him so easily in your palm. He also snapped open on a hinge, and he would occasionally attract my metal earnings because he had magnets in him. It would be so cute when I had to yank my earring away from his powerful magnetic skills.

But phones need to ring. Vibration doesn’t always cut it. For example, if you’re dead asleep and your fan is on high, you aren’t going to hear that little fricker vibrate, oh no. So it was time for me to get a new one.

I sauntered into my local T-mobile store yesterday to procure my next lil’ buddy. I picked the Motorola W490. The employee who was helping me was excited to get to his golf game, though I secretly rolled my eyes because I had felt the 99 degree weather outside and I knew he would suffer. Little did I realize, I was the one that would soon be suffering.

“Here, let me make sure all of your numbers are on your SIM card,” he said. I told him all the ones that were supposed to be on the card were on there. “Let me just make sure,” he said.

What happened? Well, I’ll tell you. He deleted ALL OF MY PHONE NUMBERS. Gone. No discount. No apology. He just awkwardly told me the (obscene) amount that I owed him for the new phone.

Then I was forced to make a Facebook event inviting everyone I’ve ever known to re-give me their digits, like I’m some sort of incompetent telephone basket case. Let me tell you this. Not having phone numbers that you have always, always had makes you feel completely cut off from the world. And what’s worse…not knowing who is calling you and being forced to say “who is this?” and then endure your callers giggling and saying “guess whoooooo?” all day long.

I burned my butt.

Look. I am in sunny California, and it is beautiful. I went to the waterpark, the ocean, the pool, etc. and enjoyed every moment of it. What has this trip given me, however, besides a slightly worse cold (from all the vino intake) and triple the amount of freckles I started out with?

Answer. One massively defined bikini butt line. We're talking white on red contrast here. As soon as the suit sides end, the red starts. Does anyone have any recommendations for ways to travel via airplane that do not involve sitting?

A numerical look at the 4th of July

Enjoyed over the holiday weekend

• Approximately 20-30 malt beverages
• 3 Chipotle feasts
  
• 2 rooftops; one with a small yet sufficient pool, the other with charming patio furniture
• A 7-person cuddlefest during downtown Minneapolis fireworks
• 3 days of tanning without sunburning (literally a first)
• 4 games of pool

Dealt with over the holiday weekend

• Insufferable 95-degree Sunday heat
• A non-air-conditioned apartment during insufferable 95-degree Sunday heat
• 1 supremely awkward male encounter
• A 6-hour traditional and very religious wedding in which I only knew my date
• A 3-hour wait time for dinner at this wedding
• 1 slow realization that our "singles table" was served dead last at this wedding

No I did not "make" my skirt.

Today a coworker told me my skirt was cute. Then, he asked if I "made" it. Did I make it? No! I purchased it! At a real store thank you! My g.

I've never been this verbally abused in my life.

It's Sunday late afternoon. I'm driving over to Rainbow from my friend's house in order to purchase a delicious supper of frozen pizza rolls. I pull into the parking lot and select a spot that is a bit of a squeeze, but not too bad. Plus, I was only going to be in the grocery store for a few minutes.

Four minutes later, I walk back to my car and stand next to it for a moment in order to complete a text message. Then, I hear someone within five feet of me scream:

"Hey BITCH, is that your f*cking car?!"

I slowly close my phone and look to the right. There is a mid-20's white male, sitting in his car beside mine, waiting for me. He is staring at me with all of the rage that one person could possibly cram into a face. His girlfriend sits beside him, mute. "Excuse me?" I say.

"Is that your F*CKING CAR parked next to MY F*ING CAR?!?!?!?!" he screams.

I tell him that yes, it is my car and that it is in between the alloted yellow lines.

"No, you BITCH, it is NOT! I had to climb through my F*ING passenger door to GET IN!" he screamed louder than most humans are even able to expel noise.

I tell him there's no reason to get upset, that we were both leaving anyway.

"Shut up you F*CKING BITCH WHORE!!!!" he shrieked.

Then he peeled out of his spot, sliding his car alongside the side of mine intentionally. Then, once his car was behind mine, he started THROWING THINGS out of his his car, as hard is he could, at my back window! Then, as I stared at him completely dumbfounded, he peeled out of the row STRAIGHT INTO ANOTHER CAR. He sat there, frozen for a second, then peeled out of the parking lot!

Then I texted myself his license plate and reported a reckless and insane driver to 911.

Hot dog of death.

So many people who know me have heard this story. But I've avoided writing about it because it's that disgusting.

Well the time is nigh.

You probably remember Subaruby. Turns out, she came with a present. The car - reeked. I mean reeked. And it seemed like I was the only one that was truly offended by the funk. My parents, who sold me the car, claimed they really couldn't smell anything. But after a few weeks, I bucked up and peered into the open moon roof.

The "present" that was giving off the stench of death was deeply embedded into the mechanics and grooves of the moon roof. And it was at least six months old.

A hot dog. Simple, harmless, right? WRONG! When hot dogs get old, they mold, then decay, then turn into a liquidy, revolting, mass of foul substance. I attempted to fork the frank and bring it out of the moon roof but instead, the utensil simply mashed it up a little, bringing only a mere morsel up to the surface. The fresh smell of rot was enough to make me vom.

Over a period of an hour, I knifed it, I spooned it, I paper toweled it, I 409'd it, I smaller knifed it, I penciled it, I yelled at it. Yet, remnants remained, so I covered the rest with baking soda because word on the street is it covers up smell. And don't even ask me how the damn meat stick got there because I simply cannot provide you with any sort of answer.

Here is an actual photo of the actual hot dog wedged in my actual sun roof, prior to my attack.

Banged and bemused.

I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now, but I couldn't find the words to tell you.

I've been banged against my will.

I sauntered in to my regular hair salon on Saturday, May 17. It was an unusually warm day. I was mentally and physically preparing myself for my first ever work trip. It was to be a week-long training in the sunny state of Florida. But you've heard me talk about that.

Basically, I trust this crazy lady. She's been chopping my hair into beautiful pieces of artwork for nearly two years. But when I sat down in her chair that day, I had no idea she would bang me without permission. And that's exactly what happened. She quietly murmured, "You had bangs, right? Man they're getting long." Of course, I did not have bangs before, and of course, she was asking me this AS she was gingerly chopping off the front half of my head of thick hair.

People like me cannot have bangs. Our hair is too thick and we have cowlicks that will not be tamed by any man or beast. I tried explaining this to her, and she looked at me like I was demented. There was nothing I could do except nervously try to accept it and tip well because I'm a chicken when it comes to being honest with someone's artwork (even if it's attached to my head).

So I'm stuck with this for a long time, as my hair grows excruciatingly slow. Notice the four points of varying bang lengths she graciously left me with.

Breaking up frickin stickin sucks.

Why? Because you have to constantly relive that shit over and over.

Case: family reunion. Last week I caught the tail end of a gigantic week-long family reunion. This happens once a year, the same time every year, and I haven't gone to the last couple. My family on that side is huge. We're talking something like 40 cousins, 20 aunts and uncles, and a load of other people that are somehow related to me. And every single one wants to know "the scoop".

What is my scoop? I have a new, great job. I graduated college. I had two internships at national publications on either side of the country. I purchased my first car. I have a nice apartment. But do they want to hear about that? No. They want to know who is my boyfriend, what happened to him, why I am single, who the next person I'm going to date is, and how long it's going to take until I date him.

Is this a Catholic thing or is this just the plight of catching up with distant relatives? Is my life really not interesting enough that they brush past everything I say until I am forced to reveal my relationship status to them? And once I reveal it to them, is it really appropriate for them to seem visibly let down?

Thank the baby g this reunion only happens once a year.