Getting “old” is the dickens, man

You guyyyyyyyyyyyyyyys.

I fucking jacked my back a week ago and today is the first day it’s mostly not hurting instead of mostly not not hurting.

And that sentence is apparently what you get when I take a few days off from writing.

When the wee folk were toddlers and I had my first CT scan for diverticulitis, it showed mild degeneration in my lower spine, which I’m guessing is from carrying two babies at once for 38.5 weeks but who really knows. It’s much better when I’m consistently exercising (surprise!) and got considerably better in general once the heat-seeking barnacles stopped sleeping in our bed full-time (they start the night in their own beds now and stumble into our room at some point during the night or at the asscrack of dawn). But this is the second time in the past six months or so that it’s done this totally fucking obnoxious thing where I’m obviously doing something in a certain way that’s aggravating it, yet it doesn’t politely twang or otherwise let me know in the moment, causing me to obliviously continue exacerbating things for however long. The first time was kneading bread dough without squaring my hips to the counter and it didn’t start hurting till hours and hours later. This time, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing and sanitizing the pantry because rats–so basically, injury to insult–and it didn’t start hurting till the middle of that night.

And, you know, I was thinking: Why do we have so many children’s stories depicting the cute little family of rats or mice living in the house and their silly, sneaky antics getting into the pantry and it’s all adorable and shit, and then in real life, we have rats in the pantry and my first instinct is to just set the fucking thing on fire? And, like, I actually LOVE rats. I grew up with rats as pets and plan to get a pair for my kids at some point in the near future. But fucking opportunistic creek rats? FUCK THAT. I mean, bleach was used, people. BLEACH. And our somewhat elderly, outdoor, diminutive tortoise shell cat does a damn brisk business in rats, I must say, but they get in the house and our furry, sleek land hippo is all, “Huh, do you hear that noise? Fascinating, I wonder what it is? Wake me if you figure it out, yeah?”

Anyway.

So my back’s been fucked up and this isn’t, like, a super common thing, so I don’t have a handy stash of pain pills or anything lying around, and I didn’t get high or drink any alcohol whatsoever because sobriety, dammit, so it was just ibuprofen and ice and irateness that turned into depression within a few days of it not quickly feeling better.

You know. The euzje.

And yes, I like making up words.

So while I have been working on my actual manuscript (HAHA, that makes it sound all fancy and shit), I haven’t been blogging because, I don’t know, foul mood and all that. But what I have also been doing is rebingewatching The 100 because hot DAMN, I love that fucking show.

I know, I know, but I really do think it’s quality. And honestly, how can you not love a show with, as the scruffy-looking nerfherder puts it, so MANY beautiful people in it? I mean, Wick deserved far more screen-time in my most humble opinion, but I’ll fucking take Zach McGowan in trade because fucking CHARLES VANE.

Wait, you guys have seen Black Sails, right? If not, you go do that RIGHT NOW. Because not only does it also present so MANY beautiful people, I think it’s one of the most brilliantly awesome shows ever in existence.

Disagree?

FIGHT ME.

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