Not some intense phobia where I can’t step into them, but just a general aversion. If I can intelligently avoid going into a hospital I will. What’s interesting is that it doesn’t apply to doctor’s offices, where I have no issues being within. But ask me to go to a hospital and I begin to feel mildly ill.

I grew up in hospitals. Sounds marvelous, no? My father was, still is in fact, a practicing radiologist in Puerto Rico. On weekends he’d take me with him to read x-rays in various hospitals around the island where he was part of the staff and I’d sit, watching him scroll through the machine, reciting medical terms into a handheld voice recorder. I’d try to pay attention, ask questions to fight off the boredom and when he was so inclined, he’d share with me what he saw and how it related to human physiology.

But there were many times when he was in a hurry, didn’t want to be bothered and I’d have to sit patiently, remaining quiet to avoid creating noise that could interfere with the transcription. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room either, lest I pester others. I was one of those kids that would hit the large red button, to satisfy my insatiable curiosity.

Those were many of my weekends with the man. Sitting in hospitals, where the smell of the disinfectant would invade my nostrils as soon as I followed him in through the service entrance. I soon learned to hate the smell but if you were to ask me to describe it, I’d be at a loss. It was like a typical antiseptic smell, one that you’d associate with cleaning buckets and spray bottles. Very difficult to explain to one that hasn’t experienced but stark and unmistakable.

I can always remember the cold fluorescent lighting splashing off of the linoleum floors, which created muddled reflections below my feet anytime we walked in. My father’d be clutching my small hand in his paw, tugging me as I craned my neck, trying to see activity that always seemed to occur out of sight but within earshot. My mind would race, imagining what might be happening, always disappointed as I sat in another cold plastic chair, listening to the whirring motors as the x-rays rolled past. Traveling from one large drum to the other on machinery that contained the fate of hundreds of people’s lives. I was mildly frightened by this contraption, always envisioning I would be entangled on the moving sheets and trapped within. I’ve always had an extremely vivid imagination.

That’s part of it.

Hospitals rarely include positive memories for most, save the birth of their children. And I’m no different. Various injuries and ailments always resulted in a visit to the hospital and because of who I was, I was usually ushered in without hesitation. But this benefit wasn’t without drawbacks.

When I was thirteen, I injured myself. That day, I heard a cat outside my window complaining. Curious as to why the cat was mewling, I reached my arm through the slats, pulling myself up to gain a better vantage. The ledge was narrow and wet, and I slipped. But my arm didn’t snake its way back through the slats quickly enough and the bones gave. I was rushed to the emergency room, into the back where I held my arm, tears streaming down my face, awaiting my father’s friend who was en route. Seated next to me was a man who’d carelessly rolled a circular saw over the hand he’d been using to brace the plywood, severing most of his fingers. And I was already in shock from the pain. Watching that man hold his arm above his heart as the nurse changed the bandage, waiting to be attended by whatever physician was on call is an image committed to memory forever. I was nauseated but never vomited, but I carried the sickened feeling with me until I was able to sleep that evening.

And then my great-grandfather was hospitalized.

There were other events that had transpired between the two events but none that affected me as deeply. I was in the Navy at the time, and out to sea on maneuvers on board the aircraft carrier. I was told by my divisional officer there was an urgent message and I was called to our workstation, to be informed that my mother had contacted them. The message was relayed that my great-grandfather had fallen ill, and was currently hospitalized. I was given the option of being flown off the ship, to the commercial airport where I would be able to board a flight to the west coast, to be at his side.

Arriving at the hospital, I learned that while I had been traveling west, my great-grandfather had slipped into a coma and was now unresponsive. The sight of a man, whom was very powerful, an imposing figure that I’d watched fight marlins while deep sea fishing, was reduced to a man-sized child. His sheets were as if swaddling cloths, and days after my arrival, he passed away.

Seeing his lifeless body, being told by the medical staff that he was no longer with, it wasn’t like a film drama. It was much colder, and quite sad. The room was filled with family, nearly every one crying, saddened by the loss of a man we revered. But I couldn’t cry. I didn’t. I was the one every one had turned to for strength, to hold them up before they collapsed, sobbing into my chest. I dealt with the loss in my own way, and it wasn’t months later that I truly mourned him.

The fluorescent lights, the linoleum floors, the echo of footsteps from the walls, all of these I can remember when thinking about being within the hospital walls. But if you ask me what the most intense memory is, I’ll tell you that it’s the smell of that disinfectant.

And I rather not be reminded what it smells like again.

Since I was a small child, it has been where I’ve found my peace. I have nothing but great memories of the beach. To me, there is nothing better than feeling the granules of sand crunch beneath my toes. The smell of the salt in the air. The surf crashing around my feet. I long for nothing more than the inner tranquility one can achieve after a long, fruitful day spent playing in the waves and basking in the sand.

Sand. I’ve always been amused by people that hate it. I love sand.  How different types of sand will make unique sounds as weight bears down upon them. The heavy grinding of sand on the North End in Virgina Beach, interspersed with large pebbles I’d notice as I’d bend down to strap my leash to my ankle. The squeaks from the sugar sand beaches in Florida, that make me want to run on the balls of my feet there, noisily enjoying myself, as the sand complains mightily.

I have a small bottle filled with ocean water and beach sand, gathered from the water’s edge at Nag’s Head. My own piece of the ocean. I keep it within sight on my desk, a reminder of my favorite place on this earth. Not specifically that beach, but the beach itself. Any beach.

It’s amazing to me how intertwined I am to the ocean and how far it is from me now. All of my activities growing up involved the ocean somehow. My afternoons and weekends, always dedicated to some aquatic activity. Hell, even my science fair project had to do with chromatography & seaweed.

Eventually, I’ll return to the beach. I’ll live within driving distance again and go back to doing all of those things I used to love. But first, I have to find a way to make that dream come true. I have a few ideas…

Twitter itself is a fun and entertaining medium, much better than MySpace, which, I did have a page on. It doesn’t bother me to admit it, as I made connections with people I wouldn’t have otherwise known without it. Then, as it had run its course, I deleted that page and didn’t look back. I like Twitter because it is much less personal and can be as open or cryptic as one wants. And there’s some funny fuckers on there. One word. Favrd.

Now back to the original intent of this whole exercise. The 7 Things meme. Here goes.

1. I talk extremely cocky. I amuse myself with it. I’ll mention how much I love me and how awesome I am. I’ll state how amazing I am and how you should love me because, well, I’m me. I make it sound like I have a larger than life ego and can project the attitude to match.

But most of the time, the self-aggrandizement is just a ruse. It’s a big joke to make people laugh. Those that aren’t in on the joke think I’m a dick, and for the most part, I don’t quite care. The people that are in on it find it amusing, and play along. Because really, it’s usually a set-up joke for some self-deprecating nonsense I’ll be  jabbering about later anyway. And who doesn’t like hearing someone who they think is full of hot air poke holes in the balloon?

2. I found that I push the envelope. Constantly. I do without even realizing. As a small child it was much more overt, watching my parent’s face while I upended the full carton of Cap’n Crunch onto the kitchen floor.

As a teen, if I wasn’t conscious of my actions, I’d end up embarrassing myself. Terribly. And nine times out of ten, it was always a practical joke that was only funny in my head. Then I’d have to apologize and explain that I really didn’t mean to wing that Rubbermaid trash can lid into the back of his head, yes I know it hurt even if it was soft, no I didn’t think that was going to happen, and yes I’ll follow you to the Vice Principal’s office.

Now, I try to catch myself before I do things I know I’ll regret later. Because I know, if I think it’s funny and I can feel horns growing from my skull, I won’t be lauging about it later.

3. I fucking *love* my little island. Adore Puerto Rico. It was probably a little obvious from my Twitter page. But I won’t live there. Not only is the economy in the tank (so much worse than the US), it’s crowded. Almost 4 million people on a island that is 3500 square miles, and most of the population is concentrated in the urban areas. There are large swaths of farmland where sugarcane was once cultivated. Of course, now that the sugar subsidy has been eliminated and sugar beets are much more profitable, the fields are empty, overrun by sawgrass and native trees.

I love going back. I love the island. But I don’t love my people. I’m misanthropic to begin with and Puerto Ricans can be some of the most judgmental fuckers you’ve ever been around. There’s a booming bumper sticker industry for one sticker, which when translated, reads “Life your own life, not mine”. So you can imagine the looks and comments a tall, heavily-tattooed, Americanized visitor draws. Anytime I go back I tend to do things that are far away from crowds or large social situations. Surfing, hiking, snorkeling, fishing. It allows my vacations to stay enjoyable.

4. I over-explain myself. It’s gets to where I’ll confuse the point I’m trying to make, ruin the intetional message I was trying to convey and then feel the need to correct myself. Usually I end up saying not quite the right words and I sound like an asshole, and beat the shit out of myself. It can be extremely frustrating as I brood and pore over what I said and what I should have said in its place.

This year though, I’ve finally been able to accept that I can’t torment myself over things that have passed and instead have been learning to focus on what I do have control over. It’s an amazing step, and coupled with the ability to let go, very freeing. Let’s see how well I do. It’s a new year.

5. I go to music shows alone. Not because I have an aversion to going with people, usually it just doesn’t work out. Most of my friends live out of state, and the few that I have here are usually not off when the show’s happening or aren’t into the group I want to see. It makes getting in and out of the show a seamless process but makes it hard to share the experience. Which is one of the best parts of seeing live music. Looking at your friends and being just so excited about that particular song you just heard. And that shit was *live*.

I had a habit of calling or texting particular friends during the shows I’d go to and they would enjoy it with me, by proxy. It was a strange yet comforting way to share. And many times, it became even more fulfilling than actually having people there who didn’t quite understand.

6. I will eventually have only one tattoo. And the artwork will flow from the base of my neck down to my toes. I’ve always wanted tattoos. When I was in grade school, I’d get myself in trouble at home by having the more artistically inclined at school draw on my skin with ink pens. All of those bands I shouldn’t have been able to name, let alone know the words to? Those were my first tattoos. I’d proudly display these blue ink masterpieces on my biceps, showing the world what my future was to be. I’ve since moved on to more interesting subject matter but have never outlived the pure joy of having new work.

I don’t enjoy the pain though, contrary to what the unitiated might assume. Being tattooed isn’t about being masochistic. I personally hate dealing with the pain. I can, because I’ve had quite a few hours of practice focusing my mind elsewhere. I have some of the most painful areas of the body covered in ink but not all. My entire chest and both sides of my torso have been painted by the needle. I didn’t care for the process but absolutely love the results.

Speaking of specific parts of the body, I’ll never tattoo above my neck nor do I want ink on my genitals. Neither are areas I’ve ever cosidered adorning. I do want to tattoo each side of my neck, and my hands but am just intelligent enough to realize these pieces would relegate me to careers where a nametag or a hardhat would be a permanent fixtures in my daily routine. I’m cool with the long sleeve for now.

This last one proved to be rather difficult. I vacillated between the mundane and the very personal, erased it multiple times and finally settled on this subject. I’m glad I don’t write for employment, I now understand why writer’s block can be so crippling.

7. I voice my inner monologue when alone. Those thoughts, especially the ones that are intense, I vocalize mine. I have full conversations, thinking aloud, following an entire thought pattern from start to finish. I’ve heard, half-jokingly that this is a sign of slight madness but really, I always felt that was some antiquated belief. If one were to hide a microphone in my car, my innermost thoughts and feelings would be yours. The drive to work is particularly noisy, as I analyze the previous night’s dream or preceding day’s events. There are times I forcefully exert more from myself, almost as if my conscious mind is giving the subconscious its pep talk. I think it’s a result of spending so many hours alone, playing as a child, always driving alone ever since I owned a car, being on watch while in the Navy, and all of the many activities I found myself alone doing. I’ve never been embarrassed by it, nor do I find it particularly strange, especially given how much I talk to others. It only seemed natural, to me at least, that I’d also talk to myself.

And there you have it. My list of 7 Things I’ve chosen to share with the rest of the world, posting for you to read. Except for #7, I shot from the hip and attempted to write what came to mind. #7 was a bitch. Ha!

As is customary at the end of these enumerated paragraphs, here are those who I’d like to invite to post their own 7 Things.

@MamitaMojita @phyllisstein     @SarahInMI @squibble     @califmom     @shamelessplug     @sween