So I will admit it; I need to see a doctor. My back has been aching something terrible these past few weeks. It's gotten to the point where I cannot even sleep past three AM without waking up in a pain that won't deminish in any familiar position I put myself in. It's been a few years since I've been under the microscope of a professional. Inspecting my ears (which I can proudly say I've done a good job of keeping clean), trying to cure my tongue's ADHD with some popsicle sticks, indulging their sweet-blood fever with their big shiny forehead disc, blinding my eyes and interrogating me, "Jayzus O'Henry, I've never-a seen so many-a different cases o' HIV in one man! Lord 'ave mercy boy! Are ya tryin' ta give it back ta the monkeys?!" Well, it's not that bad. My tongue doesn't really have ADHD, that's, of course, impossible. But I AM afraid of needles. Not looking forward to my booster shot. Something just seems unnatural to shove a piece of metal through your arm. I mean, seriously, what if I get nervous and flinch, breaking the needle off in my vain. That'd be a terrible postcard home to the folks. "Hey Mom and Dad, remember the last time I went to the dentist and three minutes into the filling procedure he shouted 'worse than a fucking two-year-old!' while he threw the syringe at the wall? Hey guys, HEY GUYS!" Though, the "My son ditched my cancer for Philadelphia and all I got was this lousy t-shirt... and chemo," wasn't an appealing express-mail either.

 Speaking of hair-loss: You'll be incurious to know I've begun growing a mini-beard. I had a week or so off for vacation and a week of night audit, so I had a healthy amount of time to cultivate some scruff. Although www.beards.org recommends taking four to six weeks to let the whiskers grow out (and for the beards.org membership package [full of combs, trimmers, and other things I won't use] to deliver) before one were to start sculpting, I can't say I know anyone who has the ability in a professional work environment to take four to six weeks off. I mean, I get nervous when taking a three day weekend, hoping they won't realize they'd get along just fine without me. Despite this, the beard is coming along quite well, and I think I might keep the mustache if it doesn't end up looking too Freddy Mercury. Though, if it does, I wouldn't mind starting a cover band. Practice sessions need to be quiet though, as my new next door neighbor is bed-ridden. To tell you the truth, I actually haven't even met anyone in my new neighborhood. They're all old and dogwalkerish, so I normally keep my head down as I pass by their loveseat-connected-protruding windows filled to the brim with nicknacks, porcelain dolphins, and littlest hobo statuettes. They hide behind those to spy on you, you know. Elderly camouflage. I became aware of this after a small police occurrence the other night.
 
 A few nights ago, some kids were arrested for who-knows-why immediately outside of my front door. Upon the discovery of the flashing red lights, my two roommates (both women in their early twenties) began running up and down the stairs whispering this way and back like a broken chandelier to each other about the situation. In between this movement came forth the classic old lady move; Opus and Amanda snuck down the stairs (as if the bandits were listening for them) and peeked through the peep hole in the front door. Get out the craftmatic adjustable bed, we have ourselves a new Rose and Dorothy. Their excuse was that when the police left and they went outside to look around (the crime scene?) they said that they saw other neighbors our age that were spying too. So there you have it. My neighborhood isn't just full of old people, it even converts the young into Murder-She-Wrote-and-Local-on-the-8's-watching, obituary-scanning, coin-purse-carrying, golden-agers with the memory of Pepperage Farm. Well, I'm not going to let them get me. Opus recently purchased a Wii and I give free-reign to anyone to punch me if the words "new fangled" or "contraption" dance the jitter-bug from my mouth.

-M