More Of The Same, I Suppose

I'm toward the end of dealing with a sprained wrist which—I know, I know—is obviously attributed to all this blog writing I've been doing in recent months.

No, truth be told, it's the result of one simple, stupid slip coming down the stairs to an unlit basement I call home. It's happened before, but I've never had an injury because of it. Luckily, xgF (now "ex-girlfriend") has been willing to offer me medical advice during these trying times. I've had plenty of time to apply and ice pack to the injury when not wearing one of those splints I only thought professional bowlers don.

Of course, I've also had plenty of time to do this because shortly after xgF and I called it quits and all my stuff came back home with me, I also called it quits on my attempt to become a "headhunter." If I haven't written anything for months, it's because that job sucked up all of my time. The seven-in-the-morning until six-at-night hours weren't as bad as coming back to xgF's apartment and still having to fill out my call sheets for the next day, or reviewing my candidate's resumes. Eventually, the whole thing took its toll on me, and by now, I'm sure this whole story has become rehashing the same problem over and over again to anybody I talk to. It reminds me of a Mr. Show sketch, of course:



To end on a positive note, I'll just say that at least this week I've been talking to real-life, actual editors and, at worst, might have to get accustomed to driving to work again. That's fine. I did miss my sports radio, after all.

That, and the "F" part of the xgF is capitalized for obvious reasons. So things could certainly be worse.

And the beat goes on ...