No idea, really. A mysterious red welt appeared on my neck yesterday, as well. Almost like someone was trying to strangle me . . . in my sleep . . . Stoker pretended it wasn't him and this morning he casually said, "Oh yeah, I was going to ask you about that . . ." And I thought to myself, "I'm on to you, buddy."
Really, maybe the welt came from Corbet. He probably scratched me because he's always scratching me. He's got these nails like your great Aunt Bobbi--you know which aunt I'm talking about, the one who gets her nails done once a week at the salon with all the other CEOs wives--EVEN though I would swear to you that I truly do cut his nails at least once a week.
I'm honestly one of the walking wounded. I have about a hundred bruises, cuts, and scrapes on my body at all times and I have no remembrance of where any of them come from. I veer a little bit toward being a hypochondriac simply because I'm certain I'll end up with something disastrous like leukemia BECAUSE I bruise easily and I never recall where the bruises come from (as though easy-bruising causes leukemia and is not a sign of leukemia. Perfect logic).
Once in a while I'll try to keep track of things. So, for example, when accidentally I ram my thigh into the evilly-placed too-high corner of the foot of the bedframe, I say, "Damn. Yeah, that's going to leave a mark. Nik, remember. Remember this, so help me, remember when you see the bruise in a few days, THIS is where you got it: the jerk bedframe. Stupid bedframe. Should have gotten a futon." By the end of the sentence, when I'm thinking about a futon, I've totally forgotten about the future-bruise.
This really happens.
The welt on my neck? For all I know, I was bitten by a black widow the other day and thought to myself, "When that swells up, remember it was a black widow that did it."
Most likely, though, it was Corbet, waving his arms at me in irritation when I was trying to put him in the kid-basket of the shopping cart (at Target--his real mother). I had a gouge on my forehead for a few days from when he didn't want me to carry him on my shoulders.
Can't believe I remember that.
The iPhone eye. A totally new disease, I think. I want to say it's from scratching my eyes too hard, but I'm almost one hundred percent certain it's from staring at my tiny iPhone screen (should've gotten a Galaxy S3) for five hours in the dark, in bed (when I should be sleeping), as I quest the crap out of my feeder accounts so I can get some high rare cards . . . before the holy war starts (can you hear the desperation in my voice . . . drug addicts have a name for it . . . no clue what it is . . .) . . .
iPhone-eye: an affliction of the eye-lid, wherein the lid sags from overuse or a due to a weakened muscle caused by
straining to look at a screen ten-times too small (usually in the dark). Photo credit: someone at Android Authority
But what's with the weak wrists? I mean, come on! I'm BARELY thirty-four. These kinds of problems are for sixty-five-year-olds. Is there NO justice? I can hardly type this. I have to keep cracking my wrists. Stretching. Massaging. Do I need a brace? My step-dad's been wearing these wrist braces around all the time and he looks, honestly, kind of, well, like he doesn't care how the wrist-braces look. Is that what I'm turning into? My step-father? He's in his sixties. Pretty sure I am not.
You know what I need to do? I need to sit down and write. Like, with a pencil, or a pen. Calisthenics for the fingers and wrists. That's what that is.
New goal: write a two page letter to a friend . . . or someone like unto a friend . . .
Reality-check: write a short thank-you note to that chick who brought you sugar cookies. From the ward.
