I may not be posting as frequently for the next couple of weeks because I need to beat off and it takes time and effort to do it correctly, unlike blogging, which anyone can do. Look around, if you don't believe me.
I'm done with physical therapy and the foot fetishist who originally sold me on the Achilles surgery with a casual assurance that I would have to be off my feet for 6 weeks now admits, 14 weeks later, that it will take a year before I'm feeling perfect again, although he was not willing to explain what perfect meant in general terms, nor would he specify what I could expect it to mean when I hit 64, and all these great benefits manifest themselves.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Faustroll continues to battle depression from having to live with my worthless ass while surviving the death of her mother and her favorite being on earth over the past miserable winter.
I need to find paying work, because I'd rather not be on social security right now, recognizing that I am doomed to live another 60 years at minimum, and I don't want to run out of milk substitute from the liberal tit before I finally cut the final fart.
Tomorrow I plan to go to the Oregon Coast Aquarium in Newport to tempt the seismic gods to wreak havoc and let loose the doggie whores.
I need to exercise my zombie hoof.