But they didn’t. And see what happened?

This is what happens Larry. This is what happens when you workout with a stranger in an abandon garage. You can’t move like a normal person. You move around like a cross between an old man with severe hemorrhoids and over-cooked pasta legs and a man who has replaced his arms with an interlocking network of poorly-made plastic cutlery.

I need some more Advil.

You see, what had happened was. . .

I worked out on Thursday. And that put me in the hurt locker. So, I had the bright idea to workout again on Friday. Not only did that strike me as the thing to do, I thought it was a good idea to get in a pre-workout workout with the Rev. Dark Wombat at the gym. Needless to say, by the time I got to the actual workout, my muscles were fatigued. And now I’m sore. In which muscles? All of them.

I’m stupid sometimes.

Speaking of stupid, the ESPN website is being an asshole this morning. It keeps giving me 404’s whenever I try to look at anything specific to the Premiere League. I am just trying to figure out who is playing today. Sigh.

Apparently, this is going to be a very frustrating day.

We need to lighten the mood a little bit.

Here, Dave sent me this yesterday and it made me laugh a lot. Which hurt, but in a good way.

Oh, hand egg, you’re so random.

Speaking of things that are random and terrifying:

That happened last night when I was watching DS9. I’ve seen it. And now I can never unsee it. Thanks a lot, Jesus.

In other news, I’ve finally scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Well, technically, I’ve scheduled a nurse practitioner’s appointment because the doctor can’t see me until March. And by then it’ll be too late for me. Just kidding. My choices were see the doctor in two months or see his nurse practitioner next week. Hrm. . . I wonder which one I’ll choose? Idiots. Since the list of my symptoms has grown from chronic headaches, trouble sleeping, and rapid heart rate to include difficulty breathing and mild panic attacks, I thought it best to get in as early as possible. They are just going to tell me to stop doing everything that I am doing now and then put me in stasis until Science can find a cure. For me.

When the receptionist asked about my last doctor visit, I had no idea what to tell her. I’ve seen random doctors over the years for little things. The flu, my kidney stone, that one time in Tijuana. But he wasn’t really a doctor. He was a “doctor”. I haven’t been to the doctor for regular check ups since I was a little kid. That became apparent at the age of 25 when I decided to go back to college and needed shot records. Which I didn’t have because I never went to the doctor.

This is like those stories you hear of people buying a car and driving it 30 years without ever changing the oil or having it serviced in any way. And then one day they start having problems and take it to a mechanic only to find that the car is totally fucked. Who knew you were supposed to change the oil? That’s me. I’ve been lucky enough to be relatively healthy my whole life. Now I’m fucked. I’ve blown a head gasket and bent a rod in the process.

I always expect the worst. Especially when I have to go to the doctor. They are going to diagnose me with sickle-celled AIDS cancer. Wherein the cells attacked about by my own immune system become deformed fast-breeding cancerous zombie cells. And that is why I am moving like a man with poorly-made plastic cutlery arms. Not because I am out of shape, but because I am riddled with SCAC. I knew it.

In reality, years of smoking, breathing clay dust, and eating like a 12 year old, combined with the past two years of sitting on my butt, have turned me into nothing but a tubby lunger. So it goes.

Jeezus. That got a little darker and depressing than I had intended. My bad. And on that note I’m going to go have lunch (probably something fried and greasy) with Word to Me.

See ya’ tomorrow.

More soon. ~SC