Decompression chamber

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Nothing profound today.

Birthday happened, and a great collection of my friends came over to share space with me, and later to go dance, and it was a wonderful day.  Ridiculous presents were received.  Progress was made on Terranova, and on Holly’s book (internally), and now I’ve got a series of little stories to write.  Weird tradition: on my birthday, I write a one-sentence story for everyone who sends a Happy Birthday message to my Facebook. No, it’s true!  Last year I had to write almost 140 of the things…anyway, this time, I have randomly epic plans to attempt to string them all together into a semi-consistent narrative, just for giggles. Why? Because I like added complexity, that’s why. It seems like a properly ambitious start to another year around the sun.

It has been a busy and eventful few weeks, leading up to the birthday, and I am comfortably in the lee of it all, with things accomplished and receding.  Time for some anti-social time, a bit less socialization so the armor can be recharged.  Anti-social time means time to work on Bovril the pursuit rig, and Terranova, and various instruments to be turned into lamps, and post-apoc props, and other projects scattered about the place.  There’s incentive to do this because the more projects I finish, the less cluttered it is.  Which can double as a metaphor for my brain as well.

I was at the doctor’s office today, for a routine followup thing, and he was doing a thing to the knee I injured just about a year ago.  Said thing involved “muscle activation” of some sort, and he was digging his fingers into the muscle in a way that was fucking excruciating, and he apologized in advance, but at the same time that I was gritting my teeth and trying to drive my fingers through the bottom of the padded table, I was getting this weird energy-transfer feeling (I call it “brainpurr“) that often happens during a massage, or when I’m watching someone do some (usually creative) task that they’re both focused on and good at, and I realized that I actually like my doctor.

This has never happened to me before, a combination of not generally having had insurance for long enough to have a doctor that was “mine” regularly and not having cared one way or another about the ones I did (I chose Dr. Pop because of her name, but there was nothing special about her other than being vaguely attractive and vaguely Eastern European).  But Dr. O’Doyle’s friendly and personable and he remembers details of my medical history when I talk to him (to be fair, it sounds like he studies up on the day’s patients before coming in, but still).  He chats and seems keen to find ways to make the things that aren’t right, better.  And he gushes about how healthy I am, which is kind of funny.  He reminds me a bit of David Morse way back when he was on St. Elsewhere, but that’s a memory twisted way out of place by childhood so I don’t know how accurate that is beyond a slight physical resemblance. (which means nothing; one of the late-night cashiers at the 7-11 nearby looks distressingly like Samwell Tarly)  Also, considering David Morse’s later roles, that might be kind of an unsettling comparison. Forget I said anything.

Anyway, it was a nice feeling.