Poet?

I don't know where to put this, it doesn't speak for me but it did speak to me.  She's got a way with words, and it's an interesting story.  Click past if it's not for you.

something to ponder

My wife likes that bumper sticker that says "what if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?"  I think it's absurdist existentialism, but Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal has another thought on the matter.

Thoughts?

Art is suffering?

So apparently art is suffering.  I started working on an art project not on the weekend that just finished but last weekend and I'm still borderline cripple from the experience   It started off innocently enough with an approximately 25lb block of wood and a dremel that progressed into neck muscles spasmed so badly that I missed a week of work trying to recover.

If that sounds pathetic, it totally is.  Ice, heat packs, Vitamin I (Ibuprofen), methocarbamol, and now flexeril. I've seen two massage therapists (at this point even my wife is giving me shit about happy endings, so feel free to pile on), and I'm looking for a chiropractor.  My stuff is messed up, Flexeril is potent enough my parents cannot get out of bed the next day when they have a 1/4 pill and I had a full pill. I still woke up at 4 am sore and tried to ice my neck again.  In my defense I handle my narcotics damn well, but still I was nervous.

In any event here's a picture of the damn thing that is killing me.