The mayor of Boston is an idiot.
Belgian waffles are tasty.
You hear writers go on and on about the perils of their work:
"I have butt pimples from sitting in my chair too much!"
"I have writer's block and I've fallen into a deep clinical depression from which there is no escape!"
"I spend so much so time alone that I no longer know how to socialize! Yesterday I forgot how to shake hands and ended up licking a man's nose instead!"
"I can't sleep. I toss and turn in a cold sweat while my characters invade my mind, demanding that I include another dead mother in my story so I can win awards!"
Big deal. How many writers have to do deal with this:
The attractive beige thing in the lower left corner is my knee. The large black thing in the center is Scooter, a Staffordshire bull terrier. He weighs 95 pounds and has approximately 342 teeth. The thing is, bull terriers like to show affection by gnawing on their people. Not hard enough to draw blood. Well, not much. But it is difficult to write while a bull terrier happily chews on one body part or another.
It was worse when he was a puppy and had razor-sharp baby teeth. He was especially fond of biting toes, so we quickly learned to sit cross-legged to avoid the scourge of Scabby Toes. Not even Gold Bond medicated powder can help that.
Back to my original point. I don't want to hear your complaints about impacted butt pimples or crushing personal depression. You try writing a sensitive and potentially award-winning book about a mother being run down and mangled by a Zamboni machine while a large animal chews your flesh. Yeah, I thought so.
I'm still stuck in bed with a wonky back. This is payback from my body for those years when I stopped being responsible and quit my job to go to Hawaii and windsurf. Learning to windsurf involves a fair amount of heavy lifting, along with being thrashed by waves, stung by jellyfish, and running into the occasional yacht. They're all painful.
If you go to