About Drugs and Motorized Carts

Post 242:

            I’ve gone and done a stupid thing. Somehow in the course of my daily, I managed to throw out my back.

            I probably shouldn’t be so hard on myself, seeing how the pain is excruciating. But what a ridiculous hardship.

            I’ll say this: When you tell someone you’ve thrown out your back, it’s a pretty good descriptor.

            Cause it’s gone. Whatever used to work, whatever you took for granted up until that moment—adios.

            It’s out. On vacation, and the rest of your body, nerve endings, bones, they’re working triple shifts just trying to keep you in the game.

            Yesterday was particularly miserable. I thought about all kinds of stuff. I was daydreaming of having a motorized cart. I envisioned the pity dates and change that I could procure, driving around, cart in place of back.

            Pretty sick. But when you’re infirm, so are your thoughts.

            I’m not making much sense. It was thirty seconds to get my hands into the typing position, so toss me a bone. I don’t think I’m pumping out anything worthy of Hemingway today. Unless I hit the bottle. Then who knows. Alcohol mixes well with pain medicine, I’ve been told.

            Kidding. They DON’T mix well. I shouldn’t joke about that. Don’t do it. Not worth it. The kids are lying to you. Those kids are the ones that end up in their thirties, dreaming about motorized carts.

            And nobody wants to be like that.

            See you after.