Backs are cunts!
I have strained a muscle in my lower back* which has somewhat soured my normally sunny disposition.
The worst thing – apart from the constant, agonising pain – is that every single passing moron on the street or on public transport, after seeing me hobble past, feels compelled to pass on their own, ludicrous, pet theories.
Passing moron: “Hurt your back, eh?”
Passing moron: “You should see my naturopath/reki healer/spiritualist/yoga guru. My boyfriend/girlfriend/aunt/uncle/flatmate/person from the internet saw a naturopath/reki healer/spiritualist/yoga guru for their back/chest/head/dick pain and they were fixed right up.”
Me: “Thanks. I’ll chase that one right up once I can move without screaming.”
It’s just as well that I don’t have a cane – yet – as I would be sorely tempted to beat the living shite out of them with it.
*From reaching into the fridge to get a beer, if you must know**.
**There you go kids. The lesson we learn from this is alcohol is indeed bad for your health***.
***Either that or put the beer up higher.