YARL (Yet Another Random List)

Shortest nightmare ever: there's this interesting-looking dead rat, curled up on its side in the gutter. It can't have been dead long. The droplets of blood round its mouth are still just that--droplets, all round and wet and beady--and its fur is puffily pristine. The camera pulls back suddenly, expanding the scene. A cracked, sootblown pavement appears, then a burnt-out car, parked in front of a pile of rubble. There's a sandwich board in front of the rubble. It reads Lavanda Massage. It's the brothel across the street. Still, the camera rises and rises, revealing a city reduced to cinders. The obnoxious glowing Royal Bank sign that keeps me up at night is on its side in the alley. The Royal Bank tower is just gone. Seagulls are everywhere, wheeling around with their beaks full of--

"Oh, Jesus H!" I shout, struggling into an upright position. The clock on the microwave reads 4:15. I've barely been sleeping an hour, and now this? And I've got heartburn, I realize, the infuriating kind of heartburn that rages all the way up to the back of your throat. I'll never fall asleep again now. I slouch over to the computer, snapping Pepto-Bismol caplets. You're not really supposed to chew them, but, come on--the little bastards are, well, anything but little. You'd need a throat the size of the Channel Tunnel to swallow 'em whole.

1. "Jesus H." I've been saying it too much lately, far too much. The rot set in some months ago, I think, when I started saying "Jesus", in an effort to eradicate excessive motherfucking. (Motherfuckage? Matricopulosity?) Anyhow, I was substituting one cuss word for another. Plain ol' Jesus soon stretched into "Jesus Christ", then "Jesus fucking Christ"; then, unable to hold its own weight, it began to collapse in on itself. The fucking was replaced with an inexplicable (but rather popular) middle initial, and the Christ was dropped entirely. I need a better all-purpose curse, something eloquently expressive of displeasure, yet repeatable in front of my mother. "Jeepers," maybe, or "scumblebum".

2. Folks who always want to talk about the war in Iraq. What does it matter what I think about it? What do I know about international politics? I'll tell you what I know: those who oppose the war say it's easy to talk about fighting from your armchair. Those who're for it, on the other hand, they say it's easy to talk pacifism from your armchair. Conclusion? It's easy to say more or less anything, as long as you're sitting in an armchair. Thus, if all armchairs were abolished, there would be no more disagreement, and no more wars to talk about. Down with the armchair. Pshaw!

(As far as a proper opinion goes, it sounds bloody awful to me, all that shooting and torture and what-have-you. Well, it does! What did you expect? I don't know from politics.)

3. Pepto-Bismol. What are they thinking? I've got a packet of Pepto caplets here, and it reads as follows: "Relieves heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, nausea, and diarrhea". First of all, what's the difference between indigestion and an upset stomach? Second of all--nausea? Are you kidding me? You expect me to swallow some giant pill (or a gulp of vile-tasting pink liquid) when I'm trying not to vomit? Uh-huh. That'll help. As far as heartburn goes, I don't know about you, but nothing says heartburn relief to me like a big pink pill stuck halfway down my esophagus. This stuff is the pits! (Unfortunately, it really does work on heartburn once in a while, so I've no choice but to suck it up. Suck it down. Oh, you know what I mean.)

4. Heartburn. I'm on this anti-heartburn diet (well, when I can afford to be, anyhow), and have been for ages now. It doesn't work, but I still try and follow it when I can. My heartburn, however, seems to occur completely at random. Sometimes, I'll eat a big greasy chicken wing, and suffer no ill effects whatsoever. Other times, I'll have a glass of water, and boom! Bloody heartburn! Tonight, for example, all I had was rice balls and a dog-end of rye bread, and I can't lie down without feeling like I've swallowed a fireball. There's a pinchy feeling under my ribs, too, on the right-hand side. I hope I haven't got gallstones. I can't afford gallstones. I didn't pay my health insurance this quarter.

5. My TV is possessed by aliens, and sometimes switches itself on with no help from the remote-control or my foot. This is OK during the day, but when it happens at night, horror movies can invade my dreams. This morning, for example, there was a film on about some guy getting dragged to death behind a truck, and I had a dream where I'd killed someone. I hate dreams like that. They leave me feeling guilty all day, even when I haven't done anything bad lately.

6. People who think the alley across the street is a toilet. I spent a large part of yesterday night gazing listlessly down that alley, too tired to work, yet quite unable to fall asleep. To my great chagrin, I kept having to avert my eyes, thanks to a pungent parade of pissers. There ought to be a policeman there, walking up and down the alley every ten minutes or so, shooing away any marauding urinators. You know, I even saw someone drop trou and have a shite there one time. Filthy, that. Something ought to be done.

7. This weird compulsion I have to make lists all the time. I have almost as many random lists clogging my hard drive as I do random chase scenes. Come to think of it, that would go for any and all obsessive behaviours, from excessive workaholism to having to eat all short-noodle-based dishes one noodle at a time. (The noodle thing started when I first ate Kraft Dinner. I'd never had anything quite so junky before, and I thought it was delicious. I ate it one noodle at a time, to save it, sort of thing, so it'd last longer. And now, whenever I eat anything with small noodles, I have to eat them one by one. Until I lose patience, anyhow. The last few bites, I scoop up like anyone else.)

8. There is no number 8. I just didn't feel like making a list that ended on an odd number.