Still waiting on the bionic spine.

It's probably a good thing that I am feeling better--I called for to set up an appointment for the physical therapist, and they can't fit me in until 1000 hours on the 30th--of July. When people talk about free health care for every American citizen, tell them to close their eyes and picture 300 million people on TriCare--while their eyes are closed, punch them in the throat and see how long they're willing to wait to see a doctor.

Back still hurts, work still silly.

Work was dull and a little depressing. It's one thing to say things like "nothing I do matters" and "my job is entirely meaningless," but it's another to have it reinforced by coming back to it after a week and a half to find that your absence made no difference whatsoever except that you didn't turn in a time accounting form while you were gone.

"Light duty"--is that a joke?

I can theoretically work from home, but translating on narcotics is probably contraindicated.

Getting old

See, it's sort of a clever title, because several things are getting old; it works on multiple levels.

First, I'm getting old. 29 and some change. And I'm noticing little signs, like a definite sprinkling of white hairs, a slower metabolism, disdain for the young, and--for the last few days--crippling back pain.

Already a Hard Day

It's 0647 right now. I've been up for not quite 3 hours. In that time, I have slammed the side of my head into the support pillar in the car port and then been hit center mass (read: groin) by a soccer ball while playing dodgeball, hard enough that I sat out a few rounds.

Hopefully, the day shall be looking up shortly. In the meantime, I'm getting an icepack for my cranium.


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