Last night I was coming downstairs after doing my nightly tuck-in duty when my foot, in a sock, slipped out from under me and I fell, in solid and spectacular fashion, directly on my butt. Even my cushiony bum couldn’t handle a load like the rest of me. Turned 180 degrees and relocated to a wrestling ring, the move would be called the piledriver. As it was, I counted myself victorious because I merely howled amorphous sounds of pain, not the stream of obscenities that bubbled to my lips.
Long story short: I’m flat on my back in bed, and I plan to stay here for a few hours. If you care to, answer my plea today: Ice, heat or Vicodin? (I’m making do with Tylenol.)
A wee bit of bloggage to bring a smile to your lips; I know it did to mine, even twisted as they are in pure, pure agony: Ken Levine’s Idol recap. A sample:
For his part, I thought Jon Bon Jovi gave the best advice all season, even better than Diana Ross advising the kids to start getting face work done now.
Argh, where are my drugs?!