This isn't even a diary any more. It's just something that I write in when I feel guilty for not writing. Tsk tsk, I say to myself. Tsk tsk.
New facts: my back is all kinds of screwed, and appears to be squashing my sciatic nerve in my right leg, which as a result also feels pretty screwed. I wonder how long it will be until Google picks up the fact that I used the word "sciatic" and strats directing people here.
I generally find it entertaining when my mom suggests that I might have sciatica, and then tries to explain where and what a sciatic nerve is. I had to interrupt her and let her know that not only do I know what the sciatic nerve is, I also spent many many afternoons removing sciatic nerves from the legs of teeny little rodents a few years ago. All in the name of science, of course, and as part of my actual job in a neurology/physiology lab. (I just felt that I should explain that, lest anyone think that I am a crazed, maniacal, nerve-excisor for no good reason. What else were we supposed to perform our immunocytochemistry on? I mean, honestly.)
Also, a Valentine's Day present led to an hour and a half massage this past weekend, plus a manicure/pedicure combo, all of which left me so deliciously jellylike that even though my back still hurt, I could not even make myself care. It was more an abstract idea of pain than any actual sort of discomfort that I might actually, you know, notice. MMmmmm. Ninety minutes of rolling hot stone massage. I will be visiting you again soon. And just in case I have not said it often enough, thank you thank you thank you to Flex for the day at the spa!
And yes, there is still/again the Fulminous/Flexible duo. And no, that decision was not based on receiving a day at the spa.
Only a few more hours until I can lie down on something. Bitchin'.