Thursday, June 05, 2008
Ok, so it appears that when I make a muscle, or group of muscles hurt, I do it in a way that is hitherto unheard of in this part of the world, but destined to take the place of the mudshark in your mythology. I took a Flexoril last night, and passed out at 7:30. When Starbuck demanded his breakfast at 5am I pried myself out of bed like some antique steampunk android and hobbled to the kitchen to feed the beasties. Their bowls, which sit on the floor, seemed to be miles from my fingers, and it took about 2 hours to bend down to get them. All the muscle relaxer did was make me dopey, and did nothing for the owie. So I bummed a Vicodin from the wife. That made me not care for a bit, but did nothing to stop the owie. As an aside, a couple of weeks ago I picked up Robin Hood: Men in Tights from the 'we can't give this shit away' bin at Wallyworld. I remember it being amusing, if not his best work. It seemed a good watch for a couch-ridden, drug-addled creature such as myself. If I might quote a certain farmboy from Tattooine, "What a piece of junk!" Talk about a film that does not stand the test of time. Most of the jokes are very reflective of the times, and they weren't that funny. Air pump sneakers. Home Alone. Constant Ah-Choo jokes. Urgh! Another memory of my youth shattered. sigh
Ok, well it hurts to sit up, so I'm going to go lay down and whimper.
Addendum: Beware the ferocious Desk Monster! They can strike when you least expect it.