Chapter 1085: Wherein I probably complain about something

I'm not going to complain about today's pointless photo, though.  It's still early enough in the season that spider picture are rare, and I was surprised that the autofocus could even find this little girl (girl, yes.  It's female) hanging out on last year's roses.  She was pretty, too.  Kind of reddish, which isn't all that common for spiders around here.

Anyway.  I've got nothing today, which is a shame because I really tried to think of something.  I'm choosing to blame the continuing neck issue, although it probably doesn't factor in except for the part where I'd really rather not be upright just at the moment.  The drive back to my place is going to be interesting, I can tell you.  I've got enough movement that it won't be unsafe (believe me, I'm not stupid enough to drive when I can't turn my head in one direction), but the headache that will result from a combination of concentration and gravity is going to be a doozy.

Sucks to be me, sometimes.

It also sucks to be getting older, I suppose.  I mean, I've been living with a certain amount of pain ever since I wrecked my ankle in grade nine (and it's scary to think how long ago that was, now), but I'm really starting to hit the age where I just plain feel creaky a lot of the time.  If the ankle doesn't hurt (well, it always hurts a bit.  If it doesn't hurt more, let's say) then the knee is throbbing.  If the knee isn't throbbing, then the neck's out.  If the neck's not out, then the wrist is probably acting up....

Nobody really warns you that your forties (YES, I ACTUALLY JUST ADMITTED THAT I'M IN MY FORTIES.  Whatever.) are where you start paying for all your past stupidity, you know?  All those ridiculous little accidents that in the past earned me the internet nickname of Gimpy the Wonder Klutz are sending their ghosts back to remind me that yes, I am a stereotypical lefty and yes, my body's off warranty.

I can't tell you how thrilled that makes me.

And of course I realise that everyone goes through this kind of thing as they age.  I'm not unique by a long shot (ok, maybe the way I buggered up my knee was unique.  Stupid, but undeniably unique).  Which brings me to one of the great confusions in my world:  Why is it that so many people are working so hard to live for so long?  I don't get that.  Sure, I'd like to have a normal average lifespan, but I really, really don't want to live so long that everything wears out.  I don't understand where the pleasure would be in that.  Maybe I'll feel differently as I get older and the panic starts to set in (is that what happens?  Is is pure panic that makes people want to live to a hundred and fifty?), but as it stands now I'd vote for quality of life over quantity.

Gee, this is getting deep all of a sudden.  And it's almost becoming a post with a point.  Pumpkin time, unless I find something completely ridiculous to end it with.  Let's see...

Oh, I know.  British sketch comedy to the rescue, as usual.  I'd say sorry for the video quality, but then I wasn't exactly the one who uploaded it...





I'm done typing now, my neck tells me.  Catch you folks later.