furuncle etc.

I am currently afflicted with a furuncle (or a carbuncle or just a plain nasty boil) on my inner thigh that make sitting down a very delicate operation. The discomfort distracts me from work and writing. In fact, I am tempted to lance the damn thing (I would if I weren't so helpless in the face of pain).

I have, however, managed to get some things done despite the thing. A pair of stories ("MaMachine" and "Drop Dead, Orphan") are nearly done, and I've resumed work on another pair of plays ("TVC" and "Beer").

On the work front, a new set of projects have sprung up - and again, I'm not complaining, except that one of them is biggest fucker of an annual report (one inch thick).

What I haven't managed to do is to catch up on my reading, sadly.

But this boil! Gah. It irks me.

Just how am I supposed to frolic in the waves at the beach this weekend (a rarity, my friends can assure you - the Alfars and the outdoors are not a natural fit)?

Maybe the world is punishing me for saying nasty things about Scott Savol? Please, America, vote him off.