Sinuses. The holes in my head, which my brother informs me are all part of my sense of taste and would help with my appreciation of fine wine (should I discover I actually like it one day), are not the Taste Sensation echo chambers they should be. They are Storage for Snot. Consequently my thoughts aren't reverberating the way they should, but instead are whumping in a deadened kind of way. Clearly my head needs subwoofer implants for such times.
Back. I'm not sure what's happening while I'm sleeping at the moment, but I suspect it involves crawling through pretzel-shaped commando courses with a shetland pony on my back. I may have to move the new bed plan forward, it's a bit ridiculous being unable to stand up straight in less than 30 seconds, and conducting business meetings from the floor is kind of unprofessional.
Stomach. I think this is associated with the lack of taste sense at the moment - everything tastes like sawdust, including the steak I had last night (it still did me good though - seems my get-high-through-meat function is working just fine). When food hits my stomach it has to force its way in past the bolted doors with the sign that says "Sawdust Not Welcome". But, those of you who know my penchant for disappearing before your eyes, my brain is currently winning that battle, and this week I've managed to eat pretty close to enough for someone my size and weight.
Girl belly. Seems to have decided to go into a permanent state of activity in that 'I'm going to give you all the pains with no results' kind of way. I think I may have to take this one to the doctor. (you may have noticed that I avoid the doctor where possible, but there's a limit).
Knees. 6 hours+ solid dancing, followed by doddering for a week, has made them complain. Don't be fooled folks, into thinking old age will be easy, with all that slow walking. Doddering is hard on the knees. Nuff said.
Feet. Here's the good news - my chilblains have gone. This despite the subzero temperatures this week. Today, I'm told it'll get up to 17. Bring it on, I say. Frantically scratching one's toes constantly in public is unladylike, and in private it's just annoying.
So there you go. I am officially a crock. My mission is to have the knees, back, sinuses and girly belly sorted before next weekend. The stomach, in my experience, will be a bit longer. But let's face it, if we put my brain and my stomach in the Thunderditch together, my brain would kick my stomach's ass.
Yes, my stomach has an ass. Shut up.
In other news, I don't know how many of you are following Tom Cosm's World Tour, but he's been having adventures in which the airline lost his luggage, including his gear for playing, and he's now operating on borrowed stuff for the rest of the gigs. He's still remarkably upbeat about it, and is also building a new site to replace the one that got hacked. I'm sending him happy thoughts at the moment.
Bon Voyage to ferrouswheel! Today being the day that he jets off (again), to go get his mind fucked and his body extremitised at Burning Man. Have an awesome time (like anyone ever thought you wouldn't!), can't wait to boogie with you when you get back. *tacklehugs*
I will be at Fidels tonight as usual. Plz2b coming to say hi and issuing me with Voltaren and Coldrex. After which I can fly off to the Bahamas in my mind, and sit there drooling with a vacant happy smile on my face.