One Mission Shy of A Space Cadet

                   

                     You smell suspiciously like peanut butter.

     Favorite Song of All Time:

               Piano Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor (Moonlight Sonata)

I’m not sure if my inability to count backwards from one hundred by sevens is due to my usual mathematical retardation, or if it really is because of the whiplash.  Besides the counting (or, not counting), my greater concerns are the blanket fogginess and absence of firing synapses in my brain.  (I accidentally wrote “bread” before I wrote “brain” . . . Precisely my point?) 

Hi, yes.  I am here because the synapses are not firing in my bread.  My bread is synapseless.  Devoid of synapse.  Please reinsert the synapses in my bread, before it’s too late!

She asked me to remember these three words: 

pink  
tissue   
and . . .

something else, but I have since forgotten.  Anyway, what’s important is I remembered at the time, but only with great effort.  The swirling thoughts of exactly how to remember three entire words was strangely overwhelming.  I wasn’t sure how to manage it.  After careful and fumbling consideration, I recited them just fine, but I could still hear the wheels in the doctor’s head turning about my mathlessness. 

One hundred minus seven?  I have no idea. 

It’s tragic, I know.

I’m still sore after five days, but this time sore because my lovely LMT drove her fingertips deep into the little knots in my shoulders.  Hurts.  So.  Good.  I’m glad we were (are?) instant friends.  Waste no time.  Since I’ll be seeing her three times a week for a month, I suppose it’s good we have rapport.  And, it helps that she’s a Cancer.  ‘Cause I’m a Cancer.  And Cancers like Cancers.  ‘Cause we cut through the junk, get to the meat, and delight in mutual understanding without having to explain It.  Plus, she has cool tattoos and speaks in metaphors.  It’s really a jolly time, now that I think about it.  A jolly, aching and painful time.