But then, nothing is.

Seems like I screwed up wheb I ordered this week’s groceries. Due to an excess of enthusiasm over how much of my usual stuff I had left over from last week, I ordered far too little this time.

There is no way these meager leftovers plus what I ordered will last until next Sunday.

Maybe Wednesday, or Thursday if I am lucky.

And this bothers me because I am normally so good at resource management. To make such a basic blunder, therefore, upsets and unsettles me.

Oh well. All it will ultimately cost me is another $10 delivery fee and some emotional distress in the long run.

At least I got everything I ordered. Well, everything but that big variety pack of lunch sized bags of Old Dutch chips.

Old Dutch, to me, always sounds like the name of a very old man, or a very old man, or possibly of both.

“Now don’t you worry about a thing, little missy. ” he wheezed. “Old Dutch will make sure you catch that stagecoach right on time!”.

Did I mention this all takes place in the Wild West?

Speaking of mental errors (I was too!), I have forgotten then remembered that today is a stat holiday (Canadian Thanksgiving) and therefore I have to wait till tomorrow to make an appointment with my GP four or five times today and it’s only 4:38 pm.

It’s like I formed the intention to call today and that intention refuses to be updated.

Ironically, the whole reason I want the appointment in the first place is because I am worried about my increasingly spotty brain performance.

Nice job with the irony as always, Fate.

More after the break.

Life in freefall

I often get the feeling that I am falling forward in time.

The days, months, and years of my life go by faster as I accelerate. It gets harder and harder to retain memories of the time I’m passing through because I am going so fast and each day is so much like alike that they all blur together like telephone poles during a high speed chase.

And the faster I go, the less real anything feels. I’m as helpless as a falling stone as I plummet through my life.

No secret as to what I’m falling towards : death. The grave. The big fat period at the end of the long, rambling, pointless sentence that was my life.

I will die without ever having lived. Without ever having gotten to be an adult. Without ever being self-sufficient. Never having had a real job. Never having been in any kind of romantic relationship, not even a fuck buddy. Having had very little sex at all, what I have had was not that great.

Instead of actually living my life, I have sealed myself off from off from the world like some kind of monk, except instead of praying I’ve been playing video games.

Praying would have been more productive.

So that’s how I see my life now : accelerating under gravity’s inexorable pull till I land in my pathetic grave with a big wet SPLAT.

I can hardly wait.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Actually, it was kind of a stupid fall.

Lately, it seems like the most vulnerable moment in any trip with the walker is the very last one, when I finally get to sit or lie down again.

Case in point : what just happened.

I had roll-walked to the kitchen to grab my usual can of soda and piece of fruit to accompany my lunch.

I was just at the finale of my epic journey, the part wherein I triumphantly flop down into this here computer chair and set my ass to bloggin’.

But I missed the chair. Well, half-missed it, anyway. What happened was that I hit the chair at a weird angle and so instead of sitting down , my angular momentum was translated into both the chair and I falling over sideways.

I landed on the bed, thank Whoever. I swear, that grimy old bed of mine has saved me from grievous bodily harm at least a dozen times.

However, my water glass also went flying. splashing its contents all over my bed.

And the contents were, um…. not water.

OK, gross confession time : sometimes when I am lying in bed and my bladder is full and I really don’t feel up to getting up and going to the bathroom and my drinking glass happens to be empty, it becomes my temporary urinal.

Then, the next I AM going to the bathroom, I dump it out in the toilet, flush, rinse out the cup, and then it’s ready for its next tour of duty.

Back to our story : when I had my little fall, my “drinking plus” cup was in urinal mode and so it was my pee that got splashed onto my bed.

It’s like I wet the bed by proxy.

Luckily I don’t appear to be hurt and I am still determined to go to Denny’s tonight.

Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead!

More after the break.

And now we return to the story already in progress

Well my god damned groceries were late.

They were supposed to arrive between 5 pm and 7 pm and they didn’t show up until almost 7:30 pm, just when we would normally be leaving for Denny’s.

So as you might imagine, the half hour leading up to 7 pm were filled with a rising tide of anxiety and agitation for this humble correspondent.

This is why I hate ever being late for anything : because I don’t want to put anyone else through what I went through today.

That delivery person should thank their lucky stars that I am both too ill and too Canadian to have gotten up and given them a piece of my mind.

Well, and I am also too kind-hearted and forgiving to do it.

I mean, I’m sure the guy is already having a bad day. It’s not like he wanted to be late but hey, excrement occurs, man.

So why make his day any worse?

I’m such a softie.

The good news is that I did successfully make it to Denny’s tonight, and had a lovely meal with even lovelier conversation with my friends.

So I feel especially well nourished right now, on more than one level.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I’d call it “bluesy country/rock” myself, but that’s just me.

Thought I was over this whole flu thing, but getting up and moving around then sitting back down again seems to have woken it from its remission.

So, yay that.

The worst part has become the brain fog.

Actually I always have brain fog. It’s part of my depression.

But the flu has made it a lot worse. I keep making all these little mental errors that individually only amount to my usual state of befuddlement but taken as a whole are coming at such a high rate that it has me worried.

I have been worried about the state of my brain in general lately, even before this goddamned flu showed up.

I keep having these bad moments where I either say or think the entirely wrong word from what I intended and, worse still, it takes a moment and a significant mental effort to force myself to remember what the right word is.

And that freaks me the fuck out. Because I can’t lose my words, man. They are all I got.

And I don’t want to end up some spastic goober tucked away in some back ward and left to rot as I twitch and flail and moan as I desperately attempt to speak but all that comes out is a series of strangulated half-phonemes.

So I had better get my poop in a group and start taking better care of myself, starting with finally making an appointment to see my GP, Doctor Chao.

Please, Whoever, don’t let these brain issues be permanent. Or get worse.

More after the break.

Someone I can depend on

Being someone I can depend on is not an easy gig.

Because I have no faith in people. I automatically (and involuntarily) assume that people will abandon me the moment they get tire it’s d of me and come to their senses and realize how gag inducingly horrible I am then run away screaming.

So even with people who have given me every reason in the world to trust them, I always have one foot partially out the door, ready to bolt and return to the safety of my lair when people give up on me.

All because of some very old tapes playing in my head.

Because that is what happened to me. I have been abandoned in so many ways and by so many people on so many levels in my life that my ability to trust people to be there when I need them has been shot to pieces.

Take Joe. (Wait no, don’t. I need him.)

If there is one person on Earth whom I trust deeply and implicitly, it’s Joseph P. Devoy. He has been nothing but an awesome and dependable friend and roommate to me for well over a decade and everything I know about him tells me that he is a rock and a saint and just plain good people.

Yet even with him, I am never fully present. Those old tapes insist that even he will abandon me if I become too burdensome or annoying.

That part of me makes me always hold back and not fully engage with people, even those closest to me. And I think people can tell.

And that’s why I have such a hard time connecting with people. As much as my positive side wants to be friendly and gregarious like a waggy tailed dog., my fascist security state makes me pull back and keep to myself.

So in any given social setting, I am always precariously balanced between the urge to be friendly and warm and the urge to scream and run away/

Hence, social anxiety.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go play video games so I can be in a place where nobody can hurt me or reject me.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

So yup. I’m sick.

Nose is running, though not as badly as it was last night.

Throat is scratchy and sore. Feels like I’ve been gargling gravel.

And I gave that up years ago.

The soreness extends all the way up through my eustachian tube into my ears, which is kind of weird. And a tad worrisome.

My lungs are sore and scratchy too. With a sort of hot feeling in them when I breathe.

And I do that all the time!

Muscle aches have shown up in full force, along with their good buddy stiffness.

And not the fun kind of stiffness. The kind that makes you feel like the Tin Man before Dorothy uses the oil can on him.

But by far the most annoying symptom is that goddamned malaise. I feel so very tired and dragged out.And there’s this persistent sense of something being wrong.

So yup. I’m a sickie all right.

Obviously I did not make it to Wound Care this morning. No need to expose a bunch of other sick people to whatever I’ve got.

An odd thing happened when I called to cancel the appointment.

The following is a summary reenactment.

“Hi, I’m afraid I can’t come in today, I’ve got the flu.”
“Oh, okay. We’ll cancel today’s appointment and you can see us for your next appointment on the 11th at 10:15 am.”
“Great, thanks! *hangs up*”
“Wait.. I never told her my name…”

So she had either vast psychic powers or Caller ID.

More after the break.

Going with my gut

It occurred to me recently that my writing process is mostly intuitive.

In a sense. I go mostly by how things feel to me.

it’s guided by my conscious mind and it’s the lower levels of my conscious mind that handle the tricky business of turning those intuitions into words.

But it all starts deep inside my soul. And when I am writing, like right now, I am rarely more than a couple word ahead in my conscious mind.

Like many, many writers before me have said, it almost feels like I am taking dictation from some deep inner voice.

This seems at odds with my hardcore rationalist materialist beliefs. But it’s not. For all my talk about logic in the past, my mighty intellect is also mostly intuitive.

It wasn’t that I never needed to study in school because I knew some secret memory techniques or had some fantastic way to study.

I just remembered it. No technique involved at all.

Going back to writing, I think the deeply intuitive nature of my process is a big part of why I find it almost impossible to go back to something I’ve written and revise and edit it.

It’s like trying to perform surgery on myself. I am too closely connected to my work to be able to take a dispassionate , clinical look at it like a editor must.

Everything I write is a part of me, and stays that way.

So I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the surgery to someone else.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Feeling a wee bit incoherent at the moment.

No mystery as to why – I didn’t sleep at all last night. Had one of my (thankfully) rare attacks of insomnia and couldn’t get within a country mile of sleep.

But not for lack of trying. Sigh.

So I figure I will crash sometime soon. Hopefully after I finish this half-entry and not in the middle of writing it.

I hate being interrupted by anything, including sleep.

Come to think of it, I had regular fully caffeinated Diet Coke with my Burger King last night. That might have put me on the fast track to No Sleep City.

Granted, I also stayed up late playing games on my tablet, but I do that every night.

In fact, the hours between 2 am and 8 am are a special time of the day for me. Everyone is asleep and I can play my games in undisturbed tranquility.

Unlike when I play them the rest of the day, with everyone’s biopressure impinging upon my consciousness from all directions.

I think that is what turns someone into a night owl : liking the feeling of being alone you get late at night.

I bet almost every single night owl is an introvert.

And hey, back in our hunting and gathering days, SOMEONE had to stay up all night to tend the fire and make sure it didn’t go out and plunge them all into darkness.

A very hungry darkness, full of claws and teeth and eyes much better at seeing in the dark than we are. One that is normally kept at bay by animals’ instinctive fear of fire.

That got spooky fast. Guess I am feeling that Halloween spirit.

So like, boo, I guess?

More after the break.

Up in flames

Feeling rather inflammatory at the moment.

In that several parts of me feel inflamed at the moment. For example, I got that pain that goes from my bladder down into my right testicle then further down the leg again.

I should probably get that looked at. Then again it might just be seminal buildup, AKA “blue balls”. And I would hate to bring THAT to a doctor.

“Gee, doc, I have this TERRIBLE ache in my balls. Can you.. relieve it? *porn music*”.

That probably would not have gone well.

More worrying is the feeling that I might be coming down with something viral.

That would explain that strange incident where I thought my blood sugar was crashing.

At the time, a runny nose and sore throat were not present so I didn’t think viral back then. But now I have both plus that telltale feeling of malaise.

So that means that I might not make it to Wound Care tomorrow. I will call the CCC early tomorrow and ask whether I should come in given my symptoms.

Of course, if things take a sudden turn for the worse, it will be a moot point because I will be in the freaking hospital.

Dunno why I felt the need to say that. Yet here we are.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I got so involved with getting my lunch together in the kitchen then transporting it here and setting it up that I almost forgot why I was here in the first place.

To write for you lovely people, of course!

It didn’t help that I had to wait for the computer to boot up because it somehow managed to turn itself off when I wasn’t using it.

No doubt that pesky “not quite right” power supply of mine is somehow to blame.

Plus there’s an issue with my own personal power supply, in that I feel very tired and sleepy right now.

That’s not unusual. I have sleepy days from time to time.

What IS somewhat unusual, and worryingly so, is the accompanying feeling of heaviness and physical depression that seemingly came along for the ride.

For a bit less than a week now, I have noticed this heavy, leaden feeling when I am getting out of bed.

Once I am up, it goes away, or so I thought.

Apparently that only works when I am standing, because sitting here in front of the computer I am feeling very heavy indeed.

Plus now there is a diffuse tingling feeling throughout my body.

Uh oh. This could be bad. I better find my insulin injection pen ASAP.

(Hopefully) more after the break.

The good news

The good news is that I’m not dead.

So, no, gentle reader, I am not a ghostly figure communicating with you from beyond the grave via ectoplasmic telekinesis.

Meaning that tonight’s entry was not, in fact, ghostwritten.

Ba dum tish.

Nor am I in the hospital or otherwise medically indisposed. That heavy, tingly feeling from earlier was NOT the imminent blood sugar crash I feared it was, thank Whoever.

And that unpleasant feeling is mostly gone now. It’s still there, buzzing around in the back of my mind like a bumblebee trapped between two windows, but it’s faint.

So the crisis has passed. I didn’t find my insulin before the weakness overtook me and I had to lay down and sleep.

Which was stupid, at least on paper, because if it HAD been a blood sugar crash, going to sleep could have been fatal.

I could have slipped into a coma and woken up in Tube Hell years later!

But whatever strange gods protect clueless geniuses like me must have smiled upon me because my body apparently fixed whatever was wrong with me while I slept.

But that doesn’t mean I am not worried. It might not have been the medical catastrophe I feared it was, but it was still Very Not Good.

I mean, I really had no choice but to lay down and sleep. It was lay down or fall down. And by the time that happened the tingling was pretty intense.

So yeah. Bad idea to take a nap then but I had no other options.

One possible cause for the attack is low blood pressure. I only recently noticed that my Ramipril is supposed to be taken twice a day, not just once, and my body might have had a reaction to the increase in dosage.

But low blood SUGAR seems more likely. I have had many attacks of the Demon Hunger lately, and that means my insulin response is so low that my cells are starving and flooding me with hunger signals as a result.

The only treatment for that is a stiff dose of insulin. Which I will administer to myself as soon as possible, before it gets so bad that no amount of food will slake the beast.

As scary as this is, I think it’s good for me to get the occasional low harm reminder that I am a very sick man who needs to take better care of himself.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

So I went back to the Community Care Clinic for the first time in a month today.

And yup, my legs are pretty sore now. Hello Mister Gabapentin and Miss Naproxen!

Please take the pain away. Sincerely, me.

The question now is whether or not I will have sufficiently recovered from this trauma by the time I have to do it all again on Friday.

The record suggests I will not have, and that means I will face it difficult decision.

Because as patient readers know, what I think happened that led to my needing a month of home wound care was that I wasn’t recovering from any given Wound Care appointment by the time the next one came up.

This caused the damage to accumulate over time until that fateful Friday when the pain got so bad that I knew something had to change.

So if the pain is worse after Friday’s appointment, I will have to decide how to react.

I might have to make a stand. Like I said way back when this whole cluster fuck started, I am not going to cripple myself in order to make life more convenient for the nurses.

I know that the home care system is very busy. That’s not in question.

The real question is whether they are so busy that they are refusing to take on ANY new patients at all, or is it just mild mannered fat dudes like me who get refused care?

Because this would hardly be the first time I have gotten screwed over by people who want to make life easier for THEM at my expense.

After all, he’s such a sweet and gentle dude that we know we’ll get away with it!

So why not? It’s not like we see him as human anyway.

Little do they know that the sweet guy they have known so far is but one side of my multifaceted personality. The one the world sees when I am calm.

Another emerges when I feel threatened. And it roars like a lion.

More after the break.

Reading the above

Reading the above, it occurs to me that despite being sweet of temperament, I am a really bitter guy.

And that tracks, because embitterment is a logical consequences of having a lot of repressed anger for a long period of time.

Stew in your own juices for long enough and it makes you into a pale and withered version of yourself filled to the brim with that distillation of anger known as bitterness just waiting for an excuse to come spewing out.

In a person with less of a fanatical devotion to self control than I, this would manifest itself as classic “anger issues” such as lashing out at those near me and going on lengthy tirades about anything and everything.

Just like my father, may he rest in peace.

And society applauds my self control. But that doesn’t make it the right answer.

“I’ll just suppress it forever” is never a good plan.

There must be some way to express all this bitterness, resentment, and latent rage that is making everything toxic and chaotic in my soul.

But it has to be morally acceptable to me. I would rather die than become a rage monster like my late father. Taking it out on others is completely unacceptable.

And yet, I don’t have any healthy examples of how to deal with anger. My mother almost never expressed anger and my father expressed his all the time he was home.

There has to be a middle path.

But I might have to go crazy for a while to get there. Le sigh.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

So far, it’s going OK.

I mean, I just declared this fatwa last night Hasn’t even been 24 hours yet.

But so far, so good.

It’s really a matter of endurance and persistence. Can I keep the pressure up for long enough to force my mind to change for the better, or will I slack off once the initial enthusiasm fades then eventually, in a moment of weakness, give up entirely?

Right now, I don’t feel like giving up. I am pumped up, jumped up, and spoiling for a fight. Locked and loaded and ready to drive the foreign imposter into the sea.

But then, I would be, wouldn’t I? Like I said, it hasn’t even been 24 hours. It would be pretty sad if I had lost the faith already.

But I know my sickness’ methods all to well. It is patient and insidious.

It will wait in the shadows, never stepping into the light where it can be confronted directly. And it will flow into any space my mind leaves open even for a moment until it has almost completely displaced the threat to its existence.

Before long, my determination is hanging by a thread. Then my illness shifts all its weight to the top of the thread and bears down as hard as it can so that the pressure and pain make me cut the thread just to get some relief.

Tricky, ain’t it? Unfortunately my illness is just as smart as I am!

But I am onto you now, sickness. I know all you dirty rotten tricks and I am not going to fall for them any more.

So fuck you, my depression. You are going to die,

And there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. I’m not going to negotiate any more.

Either release the hostages or we come in there after you.

More after the break.

About those hostages

Another of my bad side’s tricks that I will no longer fall for or even tolerate is when that sad, disgusting beast pretends to be my inner child.

True, my depression was born when I was raped as a four year old child, and a part of me has remained in that moment ever since.

But I have lived 45 years of life since then. More than enough time to pick myself up and move on.

But oh no, there’s my bad self dressed in a ceremonial child mask shaking that big ol unhealed wound at me to try to scare me away from trying to get bettter like it’s a god damned Scooby Doo villain.

And sure, I have a lot of pain buried in this graveyard of a mind. But I’m not afraid of it any more. It is MY pain and nobody else’s. It and I have been through a lot together.

We’re old buddies now.

So go ahead. Raise every zombie in my head. Summon all my ghosts and goblins. Resurrect every trauma and let loose all my demons at once.

Make a a regular Night on Bald Mountain in here. I have nothing to fear.

I’ll just invite them all in, pour them some beers, and we’ll party.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I really want to break free from this sarcophagus of a life so I can walk in the sunshine, breathe the fresh air, and lead a healthy, wholesome, open life full of joy, meaningful labour and striving, and sex.

Lots and lots of sex.

And I truly want these things.

But I also kinda don’t?

The problem is that I am still lugging this enormous cold weight of illness and madness around with me, and it definitely does NOT want things to change.

It’s against all changes because it wants stability and security above all and to it, that means total stasis.

The exact same stasis I have been in for my entire adult life and has only gotten worse over the years.

It’s about time I faced the facts : I’m not on the road to recovery.

I’m on the road to Hell. Change is coming all right, whether we like it or not. And it is all going to be bad.

I’ll just keep getting sicker and sicker, both physically and mentally, until I end up in the hospital with a tube down my throat and tied down to keep me from clawing at the tube.

That is my clear and certain life trajectory from this point on. And every day I spend doing nothing but play video games all day instead of tearing myself away from them for an hour or two to do something that might make me feel better draws me closer to the Tube Hell of my nightmares.

The only person who can save me from that fate is me. Others can help but they can’t do it all for me.

After all, nobody can save you against your will. And ultimately, nobody can make it happen, either by yourself or (more likely) with a lot of help from others, but you.

So the ball is entirely in my court.

And the sick part of me is going to let me play it OR ELSE.

More after the break.

The war of all against all

Title ref. here.

I have done my best to avoid this but the time has come when the best course of action is to stand back and let it happen.

I have to go to war with myself.

I don’t want to do it. I hate conflict, I hate war, I hate violence. I dig peace, harmony, and good vibrations, man. I’m a uniter, not a divider. I bring people together I don’t tear them away from each other. I truly believe that much of the evil in this world come from the artificial walls we build that keep us from seeing the real humanity in one another and realizing how fragile and flawed we all are.

But there comes a time when even a postmodern hippie like me has to admit that the only path to peace is to let the two sides fight it out.

War is, after all, a form of conflict resolution. It’s the worst one, but it’s still one.

And it’s all I have left.

So this is it : I, the healthy majority of my mind, aka the real Michael Bertrand, hereby declare true and total war against the unhealthy minority of my mind.

And I am prepared to win this war by any means necessary.

One way or another, I will drive this evil imposter from my mind and consign it to the oblivion of nonbeing forever more.

You are not me, you son of a bitch. You are a malign invader and shall be treated as such until you are driven out of our fair land.

A cleansing fire, like a holy fever, will burn you from my mind, and brother, you’d better not underestimate how hot I am willing to let things get in order to sweat you out.

No more trying to hear what you’re trying to tell me. You had your chance. Now I don’t give a shit any more. You have to GO.

No more worrying about becoming a less “nice” person – trust me , I have plenty of niceness to spare. More than enough to lose some in the name of destroying you.

No more letting you drive some of the time. Fuck that. I am the real me and from now o n I am the only one who is in control.

Throw all the pain, fear, confusion, and anxiety you want at me you want. I will eat it up and ask for more.

Because I’m the one who is real, not you. You are nothing but the pale shadow of an infectious disease, and will cease to exist when I snuff out your light.

One of us has to go and it sure as fuck ain’t gonna be me.

Feel that heat? That’s my hply flame coming for you.

You better get out if you don’t want to burn.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Fucked if I know.

The only times I’ve ever known what to do with mys2lf have been when I was in school.

School made things easy. What am I supposed to be doing? My school work. Other than that? Sweet fuck all.

School made leisure possible because it gave it something to contrast with.

Outside of that, I have faced the burden of days on my own. And at times that burden has come perilously close to crushing me.

Hence the video game addiction. Solved that problem.

What am I going to do? Play video games. Covers every waking moment in which I am not doing anything in particular.

And that’s most of them.

Of course, society’s helpful answer is that I should do “whatever I want”.

So what do I want?

Fucked if I know.

I have precious little experience with acting on my own volition.

Perhaps this is a byproduct of never having “played” like a normal child. I dunno.

Mostly I have just adapted to whatever circumstances I found myself in. And when those circumstances stopped changing, I had nothing to adapt to so I did the only other thing I knew how to do, namely entertain myself.

And that gets me through the day. But it’s not enough.

It’s nowhere NEAR enough.

The things I do really want to do – write for TV, become a Tiktok or YouTube star, try voice work, and so on – are all locked behind doors made of anxiety and fear and seem impossibly far away from where I am right now.

And in theory, I could be working towards any or all of those goals.

In practice, not so much .

This concrete straightjacket of mental illness that I live in won’t let me.

Now excuse me while I throw myself into playing video games until I forget that I am nothing more than a meat puppet for my mental illness.

More after the break.

Fru’s risky mission!

Well, risky by my timid standards, anyhow.

I had just heated up some of my beloved Meaty Marinara from Pizza Hut and brought it into the bedroom for my usual eating and blogging session (food in, words put) when I realized some terrible :

I had forgotten the salt.

This would not do. The pasta had arrived unpleasantly more al dente than usual and I had planned to use the salt to help compensate for that .

I thought about complaining to DoorDash but the pasta IS edible, just firmer than I prefer. And firmer than usual.

Hmm. Maybe I should have complained. Oh well, whatever.

So how was I to get the salt? I could have just rolled back out to the kitchen with the walker, but that seemed lame.

So I decided to skip the walker and walk out there unassisted.

This was not entirely impromptu. I had been thinking about testing how my legs are doing right now for a while now, and this seemed like a good opportunity to do so.

That doesn’t mean it wasn’t stupid, though. I am all alone in the apartment right now. If something had gone terribly wrong, there would have been nobody there to hear my cries for help.

But I wasn’t thinking about that at the time.

I 4hirsted for adventure, dammit!

Luckily all went well.. at first . And when realized I also didn’t have a spoon, I was tempted to do it again.

But I am real glad I didn’t because my legs are hurting bad enough right now from the one excursion that I am pretty sure a second one would have crippled me.

So how are my legs? Not good, man. Not good;

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow .