Yeah, okay. If you want to hear the whole sordid tale, I told it on my other blog. Click here.
No, really, read it! It’s pretty good.
And I shit you not, even my little finger hurts. Owie.
I’ll write later this week. I mean, geez, my finger hurts! Never mind my boobs! Holy shit, who knew breasts could hurt this bad? If I was to jog right now, I’d die in agony, screaming “My jugs are murdering me!” Thank GOD I don’t jog! One bounce and I’d have to bitch-slap some sense into me. I’m loathing tomorrow and the sheer horror of pain I know I’ll be in after the 24-hour waiting period for AGONY has expired. The second day is always the worst, eh?*
And tomorrow my team needs to fight for its life as they’re down 3 games to 1 in the best-of-seven against Those Disney Bitches.
(Yes, I know the Ducks were sold by Disney years ago. But, still, once a bitch always a bitch, no? Don’t rain on my humour parade, man. Go Canucks, Go! I MUST BUY BEER! That’s what’s been wrong. I’ve jinxed the entire city by failing to drink during the last two games. What in the hell was I thinking? So, beer, then, or wine? Oh, the dilemma… Curse you, cosmos! And I must respect the 1994 Stanley Cup Playoff Towel and put it in a place of honour. No fucking with the juju!)
*But I secretly love knowing I pushed my body this hard and have lived to tell about it. My pinkie’s future is questionable, but I know I’ll survive. Gloria Gaynor tells me so.