For the fact that I haven't written. I know no one cares, but I have this obsessive personality, so I feel guilty anyway.
Suffice it to say that it's been a very bad week. (And now you say, "How bad was it?")
It was SO bad that I am sitting on my sofa on a Friday night watching George Hamilton and Mariella Frostrup on "The Kumars at No. 42." I love this show anyway--I love Sanjeev Bhaskar, and I love the gentle dysfunction of the Kumars. But tonight I'm watching with the aid of (non-prescription, non-acetaminophen) painkillers and red wine, and I think I even love George Hamilton.
There may be some inebriated text messaging later this evening for which I cannot be held morally responsible. Or, you know, I may just pass out. Either way, my neck, which was so painful earlier today that I lay on the sofa fighting the impulse to sob every time I had to draw breath, is feeling much, much better.
More later, including further description of my malady (it's G-rated, honest).
But I won't write now, because if I did, my topics would include:
A comprehensive criticism of Blockbuster Video's shelving system, including the reasons why Psycho is not a "drama" if you also have a "horror" section, at least, not if the horror section includes other non-supernatural horror films, e.g., "The Boston Strangler."
Praise for my local Italian restaurant, which gave me lasagna in TEN MINUTES because I was in pain and they felt sorry for me. (Allow me to assure you that this was before the wine.)
Praise for peanut butter M&M's which may be the best M&M's on the planet, and which don't get nearly enough recognition.
Commentary on blogger's spellchecker, which doesn't know a lot of the words I want to use but which can spell acetaminophen without any difficulty. (It doesn't know the word "blog," but really, I think its vocabulary is only about 800 words, so that's hardly surprising. But acetaminophen? Really?)
Yeah, see? That's why I'm not writing. So adieu until I recover enough to engage some sort of filter.