So that should tell you something. The typing, I mean.
What it should tell you is that I'm a bad-ass and can withstand excruciating physical pain, the likes of which would crush lesser beings, reducing them to quivering masses of sniveling girlflesh1, so you really don't want to fuck with me, now do you2? I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE3!1!
Anyroad, I made an appointment yesterday to see the doctor today — one doctor, not three and a half like a certain a p*ssy trail4 runner I could name but won't because his name is already contained in the pangram "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog named Steve Quick, who is certifiably insane" which I was gonna quote anyway for no particular reason—and here is the upshot of that visit, back from which I just got5:
I am yet again in for some physical therapy. (O, Tony The Physical Therapist! Ours was a love too beautiful to've ended the way it did, i.e., with you taking out that restraining order against me!) I have to wait a week or two till the muscle in the shoulder calms down. I don't know what the muscle is called, technically, but I'm calling it TEH FUCKWAD MUSCLE BECAUSE IT'S BEING A REAL FUCKWAD!1!
So I have that — PT — to look forward to.
In the meantime, ice; little dangly-arm-going-in-a-circle exercises; and this extra-strength ibuprofen (street value: One MEEEELION dollars! Canadian!).
Why do doctors never prescribe beer for pain? I think it's because they're hand-in-glove with Big Pharma, and Big Pharma and the AMA want nothing more than to take Big Zymu6 down!
Well it ain't gonna happen, boys! Not on my watch!
Speaking of which, my watch is over.
Time for a beer.
P.S. I see no reason why I can't run that birthday 5k tomorrow. I will shoot for a PW (personal worst) of around 40, 45 minutes.
Man, I feel sorry for you people who read this blog regularly. Because I have to do a program on The Who at my library (loooong story) in July and I'm spending all my spare time doing Research on The Who (or "Whosearch") and I'm compiling waaaaay more information than I could ever use in a one hour program and since I'm cheap and tend not to like to waste anything, that information has to go somewhere, and so I foresee a July, August and September around here of little other than posts about The Who.
You have been forewarned.
Don't pretend that you know me, cos I don't even know myself.
1 Is all this talk of quivering girlflesh giving anyone else a boner? Anyone? RBR?
2 Assuming you're a regular reader of this blog, you're pretty bad-ass, too, in terms of the psychological and mental pain you can endure, and as Exhibit A to prove my case re: your bad-assery, I hereby submit the very fact that you read this blog. Because, Jebus Aitch Chrsylerbuilding! I write this stuff but there is just no way I could read it on a regular basis and resist the urge to kill myself by pulling my n*ts@ck off through my oral cavity2a. Which I'm pretty sure would be fatal.
2a Or, in the case of you skirts, your oviducts. Or, in the case of RBR, her/his oviducts and n*ts@ck.
3 If you're a dude, that is. If you're a chick, me naked on a bed sprinkled with red rose petals with a come hither look in my eyes is your worst nightmare. No, no! Don't force yourself to wake up! I'm still enjoying this!
4 Not meant to imply that the trails are made out of p*ssy despite how it looks syntactically.
5 Phrased thusly to piss off Winston Churchill, on the off chance he's one of the 6 people who read this blog.
I might just as well take the opportunity here as anywhere else to apologize for this post's diffuseness and lack of focus and, quite possibly, its groovily psychedelic vibe, which is a direct result of the EXTRA STRENGTH ibuprofen the doctor gave me and that I just took and which probably explains why I felt I had to point out the seemingly obvious fact that Steve Quick does not, of course, run on trails made of p*ssy. He runs on trails made of t*t because he prefers the hilly terrain. And when he says he "just got back from a long out and back" you don't — TRUST ME — want to know what that trail is made of, but I'll hint at it by reciting for you this limerick starring a guy named "Enos":
Enos ran trails like Steve Quick
But his head wasn't nearly as thick
"I've run on a boob
"But on steak shaped like tube?
"I'd much rather run on a d*ck but I won't because that's where SteveQ does his long out and backs."
You have to read that last line really fast for it to scan correctly.
Sorry. I told you, I'm riding the ibu-pony — HARD!1! (sorry, Morrissey!) — and this whole footnote, indeed this whole post, is really the ibuprofen talking.
Stay in SCHOOL, kids! Because this extra strength ibuprofen is waaay easier to get at school.
6 Short for "Big Zymurgy".