Shoulder to the wheel
I'm not particularly in the mood to write a blog entry, but it's pissing rain and my shoulder is rendering me a shivering, pain-deranged fetus, so I'm not going to that party, because I wouldn't really want to go even if my shoulder were not, in itself, the apocalypse, and now that it is, ipse facto, the End of Days under my broken rotator cuff, I prefer to take an anti-inflammatory and turn up the electric heater and prod my crunchy bone-muscle-ligament-tendons which seem to be getting impossibly grosser and grosser rather than ever healing at all, ever. Because I never did my exercises.

What happened, I think, is that I put too much strain on my long-ago damaged arm during my move. However, I've been so busy trying not to get fired that I've also violated every doctor's rules for everything, including but not limited to not lifting anything heavier than a phone book ever. Thanks a lot doctor, that was such a good rule. Why did I ever break it? Because I don't have three manservant bodyguards? That is hardly a reason if my insurance will pay for a load-bearing robot, to come with me to school, carrying one of those nerdy backpacks on wheels, clumping always twenty paces behind me, but a loving chaperone nonetheless for those late-night walks home. None of this is fair.

In the meantime, my spine has morphed amorously around a large right-side lower-back spasm radiating from a knot the size of a naval orange. I had a massage on Sunday, and while it helped momentarily, I think that Universal Donor's theory is correct, and that the loosening of muscles actually allowed a wormhole to open in the vicinity of my SHOULDER and space mutant leprechauns crawl lickety-split through my clavicle and dance around making disgusting celtic-jig tappety crunchy noises whenever I touch my humerus or do anything else, at all. God I hate monsters.