It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

Speaking of hating the Olympics, this is a Chinese hand-carved lunch box that my mother bought me a few years ago. They told her it was over 80 years old but because it's Chinese it's probably only 14. The lid and the base fit seamlessly for an octogan-shaped container. It's about a foot high and a foot across. The inside cover has characters written on it and the top boasts a stenciled gold man holding a samurai sword. The ancient Chinese art of placement, feng shui, is laid out on an octagon. The blueprints for all buildings in China and Hong Kong must be approved by feng shui experts so I'm sure the various sites of the Olympics were planned the same way.

I'm over at Uproarious today discussing the Bob Saget roast.

Susan and Jenn nominated me for this although I think it's backwards and should be Bloggers Whose Asses I'd Kick but no one asks my opinion. Forgive me for not passing it on but that requires thinking and every brain cell I have is being used to fix my hands and blog on three sites. But I thank you both.How did I get through 4 months of not walking, have zero pain, and end up like this?

The trigger point massage made my hands worse. My internist said I should drive to his office (I can't feel the steering wheel) because I might have fibromyalgia. I think you have to have a few what I like to call SYMPTOMS for that to be true. I'm been going to doctors since I was 13 because of my scoliosis and God's general hatred of my body. If I could impress upon you all how often they are wrong, you would be very, very upset. But they are.

So forgive me if I don't leave comments these days. And for those of you who have the letters that have to be typed in before I can comment? STOP IT. In 2 years of blogging, I've been spam bombed twice. I put in the letters verification for a week, the spamming stops and I take it away.

My friend Ken dropped off 2 little blue pills last Friday that were as close to heroin as I've been in a while. I'm using a heating and massage pad which works. I have my little statue of Ganesha that I bought in Mumbai next to my bed along with a statue of St. Rita, the Saint of Impossible Things. Both of them are currently on a break, apparently.

This is how desperate I am. Saints on the nightstand, right next to the condoms.

It's definitely coming from my lower back, which is clenched as tightly as a Black Panther's fist and would not make me a very bendy whore. Because the back is rigid, I sleep on my sides and when I wake up my shoulders are wrapped around my sleep mask. It's clearly a pinched nerve.

I want to be 4 years old and run crying to my mother but I don't have that kind of mother. I have a mother who buys me Chinese lunch pails to show her love. I've run crying to her in the past and she always assumed it's because of something I did wrong. Which is why I don't speak to her anymore.

I have to be very careful with knives and scissors because I can't gauge how tightly I'm holding them. On Saturday a pair of kitchen shears dropped straight down on one of my toes. I didn't even realize I'd dropped it. There was blood.

Plucking my eyebrows is an exercise in terror.

End of chat.