I bit the bullet and went to see the Doc this week. The tops of my feet have sun poisoning from sailing, I’ve got a nagging splinter in my right heel from a drunken game of kickball played after a funeral, my left elbow is all weird after some guerilla-style soccer with the neighbor kids, the right side of my neck developed a twitch after a pick-up game of volleyball a few days ago, and I pulled a muscle in my back again after lifting.

The Doc clucks at me with his thick brogue while he manages to excavate the elusive splinter from my foot:

“What the hell are you doing to yourself?”

“I play hard.”

“You’re falling apart!”

“Because I play harder than most.”

“I’m going to prescribe you some X, Y, and Z.”

“But I don’t want X, Y, or Z, they make me feel more stupid than normal.”

“You like being in pain?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to go back to PT?”

“It only ever makes me feel worse.”

“Well, if you’re not going to take pain medication or do the physical therapy, then why don’t you stop all these shenanigans that put you in this state?”

“Well, what fun would that be?”

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