In Which MF-S Goes Mad

Fuck. 2008. Seriously.

December was the prologue--we buy a new house and then that bitch-ass ice storm rolls in. Had to get a running start, right? So we get power back, plumbing goes out for about four days and for two of those in the center, I have a stomach virus. You do the math on that one. I rang in the year sitting on the toilet barfing into a trash can. While that is not the first time I've embraced a new year that way, it was certainly the first time it wasn't my own fool fault. This, really, should have told me something.

To my credit, I'm not dead, I am (barring some kind of horrific Oregon tragedy, god forbid) still married, and we do have said house.

But two days after to dropped, like, more cash than I'd like on a shiny new Y membership, what happens?
I get whiplash.
From sneezing.
Really.
No, really.
No! Really!
I've spent over a month nearly bed-ridden: work, home to heating pad, up to work, home to heating pad, etc. etc. etc. The fictional character I most identify with is quickly changing from The Ugly Girl in Flannery O'Connor's "Revelation," Enid from Ghost World, and Rose Tyler from Dr. Who (shut up) to Jack Torrence from (the movie version of) The Shining. "Danny, I'm coming!"

Also, I hate my job, but we're not going to go into that, because really I'm pretty sick of talking about it and you all know teaching public high school is inherently heinous.

And also? I've been reading so many naughty British stories that I'm starting to write like a Brit. So, hey, pretentious to cap it off. (Like just now! I had to go back and change "centre" to "center").

But whatever. Nobody likes a complainer, yeah? I'm gonna saddle up, to to Reasor's and look for bananas. That'll fix it right up.

UPDATE: So...did ya'll know that withdrawal from narcotics such as those used to treat, oh say whiplash, cause nausea, restlessness, aches, and SEVERE DEPRESSION. How 'bout that? I'm not crazy, I'm just getting a very small monkey off my back. Hence the craving for bananas, I suppose...