I do my best blogging in the shower.

Now the trick is trying to figure out how to remember it all once I get out. Some people sing. I blog. Well...I sing too. Sometimes I even sing what I want to blog. Don't get creeped out...stay with me here.

I was in the shower today, and I thought to myself: "I have been run through the mill so many times I ought to own the damn thing by now. Heheh. That was funny. I should blog that. I hope I remember it when I get out. I wish there was a way I could blog in the shower without killing the laptop. A dry erase board won't work cause it isn't dry in here. Digital recorder might work if I seal it in a plastic bag. Would it sound muffled cause I recorded through a plastic bag? I should try that in the next shower. I hope I remember that I wanted to try that the next time I take a shower. That joke Moose told me yesterday was hilarious.* I still think it is funny. I should tell Feisty the next time she calls. I hope I remember to tell her. I hope I remember the joke when I remember to tell her. I should go back and edit that blog from the other day about all the stuff that I want in my wildest dreams. I would give up all that shit to not be in pain any more. Fucking dump truck. I hate dump trucks. Dump trucks are the reason I haven't enjoyed a shower in weeks. I should remember that and blog about it."

So that was about the whole train of thought. It was quickly derailed when I was yelled at that I was running out of time and was going to be late for my first physical therapy appointment. I got out, got dressed, hopped in the minivan and booked it to the appointment. I passed a pretty sweet looking Corvette on the way. Yes I said passed. In a minivan. As I passed I saw a lady that looked to be about 112 who could barely see over the steering wheel. Sad. She was in the left lane. Aggravating. With her right blinker on. Infuriating. Going 55 in a 65. Bitch. What a waste of a sports car.

Therapy was a new level of painful hell that I wouldn't wish on the guy who hit...well yeah I would. (Fucking dump trucks.) I get to experience this level of hell and much more twice a week until...

The normal therapy would involve electro-muscular shocks. An evaluation MRI. Lots of other modern day treatments that could make me all better lickety-split. I can't do any of that because of my implanted cardiac defibrillator. (Which can never be removed.) So I get the slow, painful, long and drawn out recovery route. Joy. Rapture. (ShitDamnDoubleDamnMotherFuckinLuck) That makes me feel a little better. A little. Not really.

Sorry this post isn't the usual funny you have become used to when visiting here. I am in pain and I don't like pain. Pain hurts. I will leave you, my friends, with a little wisdom instead.

Friends are like condoms: There to protect you when things get hard.


*If Hooters did door to door delivery, would they have to change their name to Knockers?