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Day 702

Sciatica is a mean motherfucker....

He went away for a few days, maybe to get some r & r, because when he came back, he just laid it all on me, took me down and pounded my sorry ass into the ground.

I tried to reason with him: hot bath last night, heating pad, ibuprofen, naproxen, but he didn't give a flying shit: he just hammered away at me all day, no mercy.

I tried to ignore him: I made coffee and read Pynchon in the morning, but he was having none of it: zap, zap, asshole. Can't you see you can't avoid me?

I practiced productivity: I worked on my art (I'm working on a series about modern dancers, working in ink and broad nibbed pens), and he tagged along, shooting bolts of pain when I shifted position.

I managed to finish up a publication I was working on and even managed to upload it onto the web. He tried, but couldn't stop me.

I even demolished an old metal awning that had fallen down last weekend; he stood by, observing patiently, until I was done.

Then he whipped me over and over for the rest of the day, into the evening, and maybe he'll let me sleep.

Hope.

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