My fast is now into its 22nd day. I'd imagine that if this were a hunger fast, then even a cracker would smell like a feast. For me, it's emerging as a heightened sensitivity.
Many people know that part of the male anatomy tends to wake up before the rest on any given morning. Each of the last two days, I've awoken with the kind of sensation usually felt only in the final ten seconds before launch. Fortunately, I was able to flood my mind with depressing thoughts like the Chicago Cubs just in time to put out the fire before it reached a flashpoint.
Today I had a therapeutic (non-reflexology, so non-tickling) massage. Still, after multiple replays of last week's video (though not nearly as often as its 1,000+ views would suggest!), the whole environment is an ambush to the increasingly delicate mission. As I lay face down, and her hands stroked the backs of my thighs with gentle yet firm downward pressure that in turn rubbed my underside rhythmically along the table, I had to reach all the way to the Bartman incident to keep the ignition in check.
Just writing about these memories is raising the temperature of the launch pad to abnormally high levels. I can only wonder how my defense is going to hold up when the offense is triple-teaming me. There's only so much baseball misery a man can muster.
I'm going to spend the evening watching disaster movies in hopes that my final morning dream tomorrow is about the Hindenburg crash. I'll make sure there's ice in the freezer in case of emergency.
42 hours to go. If you're reading this, PM me for luck.
Many people know that part of the male anatomy tends to wake up before the rest on any given morning. Each of the last two days, I've awoken with the kind of sensation usually felt only in the final ten seconds before launch. Fortunately, I was able to flood my mind with depressing thoughts like the Chicago Cubs just in time to put out the fire before it reached a flashpoint.
Today I had a therapeutic (non-reflexology, so non-tickling) massage. Still, after multiple replays of last week's video (though not nearly as often as its 1,000+ views would suggest!), the whole environment is an ambush to the increasingly delicate mission. As I lay face down, and her hands stroked the backs of my thighs with gentle yet firm downward pressure that in turn rubbed my underside rhythmically along the table, I had to reach all the way to the Bartman incident to keep the ignition in check.
Just writing about these memories is raising the temperature of the launch pad to abnormally high levels. I can only wonder how my defense is going to hold up when the offense is triple-teaming me. There's only so much baseball misery a man can muster.
I'm going to spend the evening watching disaster movies in hopes that my final morning dream tomorrow is about the Hindenburg crash. I'll make sure there's ice in the freezer in case of emergency.
42 hours to go. If you're reading this, PM me for luck.
