Post-Modern Drunk: A Quick One While He's Away
On Wednesday, five days into my nine days in Spain, I have developed a really really large blister on my left foot, mostly as a result of a series of stupid decisions I made about whether or not to take a cab, bus, or walk through the cities that I've been visiting. My legs are horribly sore, in general, but it's the blister currently staking out territory on the balls of my left foot that is giving me the most grief.

I feed it, I dress it, I care for it, and all it does is hurt and complain every step of the way. Sometimes I think that we'd be better off apart, though really, I'm never going to leave my blister. I'm going to make it leave me first. It's disgusting, really, after all I've done for him how awful he treats me.

Oh well. Looks like we're stuck with each other for awhile, and I might as well get used to him. I have named him Dillon.

It's a shame, though. Dillon doesn't seem to have any friends--though really, if he were to get some friends it would probalby cause more inconvenience for me than anything else--presumably they'd all be pains as well. Still, maybe if he had some friends he would leave me alone for awhile. Nope. Instead he just sits there and gripes--my Big Fucker ("BF" for short).

Oh well.

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