Crippled. Crippled, I am, with back-gah.
They never say in the manual that bending down to pick up €1.90, for the bus trip into town, can result in a twinge so hostile that the air around oneself might turn cobalt.
They don't say that.
This was meant to be the good day, the one to bookend a series of days so full of efforts to improve one's station that it'd leave a man sleepless, restless, fretful, nervous.
It was meant to be a day of coffee, the couch and O Captain My Captain, but it's been sundered by shooting pains above the buttocks and the inability to stop third-personing oneself.
And repetition. The repetition. I'm like that terrible writer EL James that I keep scoffing so much about, though I've barely been able to read a sentence of her work.
This is not the good day, not the day of self indulgence I had greedily planned, but a Wednesday where I realise that the noise that old men make will happen to us all.