Remember the story about poo?
Wasn’t very popular, that one. Not so many unique visitors and what have you, and a shame it was too because the story was nothing if not unique. Sort of explored the blurred boundary between aversion-to-poo and aversion-to-stories-about-poo. Well, this is the follow up, but before you click off, it isn’t about poo.
No, this one’s about pain.
Do try to remember that. It’s about pain. It isn’t pain itself. It can’t hurt you.
It’s about the kind of pain that makes your head feel as if it will snap in two, any second now, under the strain. Probing, living pain that hates you, pounding away at you, grinding away and having a lovely time of it, hurting you and, when it feels as though it hasn’t got quite enough of your attention for a moment, stabbing you, and then carrying on with the grinding.
I’ve been on the sofa for four days, hunched. To K, now, I am merely a curved back. A lumbering mass of need and inutility; in a way I’m surprised she’s noticed.
I am full to capacity with painkillers, antibiotics and wine. More