Oh, and it was so very lovely when that 6-hour car parking ticket ran out. [Fortunately, after bbd had run out and bought another].
I just wrote myself a river of traumatic recall of something that was more numbing and dull than anything else. I took "further tales from the city" and read it cover-to-cover. Maupin is the god of quirky last liners -- particularly when writing about vomit. And 90% of the cast are at least vaguely adorable and that other 10% gets out of the narrative eventually/eventfully. I think Mouse/Michael needs a hug, and that is not just because of my fluffy little slash fangirl credentials... meep, he is just that... you want to take him home, give him a bath, a decent meal, and better parents.
For those of you who just want to rush to the gory details:
31 Injections to the Head
I really should have < marquee > that and add flashy lights. I got myself botoxed with a touch of lindocaine -- with little "just a sharp scratch" needles. The plan being that maybe turning off some nerves might do something to kick the headache in the teeth (thus showing that my misfiring nerves give me Brane!Hate) or (uh) not (so that means that the Brane!hate does not hang out in my scalp/forehead/neck/shoulders and boogie with my nerves). That was about 15 minutes, in which I made jokes about phrenology (the Victorian "science" that personality, criminality, and other social maladies could be determined by carefully studying bumps on the skull). This started with "what kind of skull-fondling specialist doesn't know about phrenology" and moved on to Pterry and retro-phrenology (hitting the head with small little hammers to change personality traits).
Uh and that's about it for today... babycakes.