Almost went Toby on myself

So the end of the year brought with it the usual stress and irritation. This year there was a twist. Life decided that I'm just not going through enough. I apparently don't have enough things to be concerned about or to get stressed over. Life, it seems, does not take the holidays off.

A few days a go I woke up in the morning in pain. My foot was killing me. What the hell? It was fine when I went to bed. Had I been sleepwalking and bashed it on something? No time to dwell on it, I had to go to work and it wasn't too terrible a pain. It hurt all that day and night and hurt still when I woke up the next day.

Odd.

The day after that, Christmas day (spit) it got worse. Much worse. It started out about the same but during dinner it started to get worse. After dinner it continued to turn up the pain dial until it reached the point that I can really only describe as unrelenting torment. I got home and took off my sock to find my foot swollen like an overstuffed sausage.

Great.

Yesterday I called my doctor and made an appointment. This meant having to squeeze my disturbingly tumescent foot into a shoe. Even prying it open as far as I could it took me a long time to put it on. The pain dial turned itself up another tic. I get there and have to take the shoe off (wince) for her to see.

Do you eat steak?

Yes.

Seafood?

Of course.

Gout.

...shit.

Why didn't anyone tell me it hurt like this? Someone I know had to have known. Bastards. Anyway I put the shoe back on (wince, quiet moan) and hobbled, yes I was full on hobbling at this point, to go for the X-ray she wanted just in case. Shoe back off (groan), X-Ray, shoe back on (snarl, quiver) and finally home. No red meat, no seafood and no beer until it goes away.

Oh joy.

Here I am today, foot still swollen, wondering if people will still ask me next year why I hate this time of year so much. Maybe I'll smash their feet with a sledge hammer and ask them if that improves their mood or makes it worse.

Except for the Elvis CD, I can do without it

I already went into this at length last year, so I'll just say this:

Make it stop. Please.

He's got pie in his eyebrow...

I wish my brain had a mouth so it could actually vomit once in a while.

Popcorn flavored jelly beans are fucking gross. Seriously. You'd think it'd be great. Jelly beans! Yay! Popcorn! Yay! Then you chew the jelly bean and it tastes. Like. Popcorn. So nasty.

OK stop reading and go get a dictionary. I'll wait. OK, now look up the word decimate. Got it? Read it. Twice. Done? Great. Now stop fucking misusing it you nerve wracking bastards!

Fuck Michigan.

Do dropped text messages go to the same place that odd socks and lost pens go? Maybe it's more compartmentalized. Divisions of labor and whatnot. They all go to the main area together and then get divided up and stored individually. Either way, can I get all my shit back? Please?

So I was reading the paper as is my wont (because I'm not miserable enough obviously) and I come across an article about, wait for it, competitive yoga. Think about that. Competitive yoga. Are you fucking kidding me? I'm more enlightened than you! Eat it bitch! What's next, competitive Judaism? Shalom, motherfucker!

Do amputees get drunk faster than normal folk?

Nascar. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Two things that do not go well together: Toothpaste and orange juice. Make a note.

Y'know what would be awesome? If Rob Zombie wrote a biography of Pee Wee Herman.

Rock me sexy Jesus.

I've been listening to a lot of Pink Floyd and Judas Priest lately. A lot. Now I can't decide whether to dress in leather head to toe and ponder my own sanity or sodomize my inner child. Tough call.