Since Sunday, I’ve been feeling crippled up and a-slowly dying like.

The combo of planning our group’s retreat, painfully worrisome, hefting and toting my own bags (see prior entry on my relatedness to the Clampetts and unsuitability for fine hoteling and valeting) and getting trapped in a car in traffic for hours, unable to party til I dropped, all caught up, I fear, making me feel something only slightly lower than 9 million years old. It’s fucked that a stiff neck can just be a tiny, relative bit of pain that just feels exponentially worst.

How big is my neck compared to the rest of my considerable bulk that I should be so miserable?

It’s getting better, I need to believe. Or my ibuprofen, naproxen sodium cocktails of inappropriate doses and/or what I’m thinking of my Israeli heat packs are adding to the pain-induced delirium. It’s an Israeli heatpack, because the chick who sold it at the mall kiosk was seemingly such a national and aggressive enough to make me believe she could have held the West Bank.

Rather than wait to be hit with a rocketlauncher launched rocket, I ponied up the dough and walked away with the deluxe, four-product pack of herbal healing, microwaveable warmth. It’s like I reached across to foreign lands using the universal language of US currency.