I very much like my bruise. No, I'm not a masochist. I didn't like getting the bruise. It hurt like hell. Now that it's here, however, I like it. It's a bizarre badge of honour... in a world where training bow and arrow is entirely unnecessary.
Man, I was so born in the wrong era!
The thing I have at the moment that is less a badge of honour and more a reminder of how pale I am, is my horrific sunburn. Acquired during the trail ride Sunday afternoon, it has now become so painful as to have me wishing for an ice bath and the day off work. My arms and face have returned more or less to normal. It's the back of my neck and shoulders that are constantly on fire.
My scalp, of all things, as well.
This also had me thinking. Perhaps I should move to the UK, where the sun is both less strong and less frequent. It also had me thinking this:
For all my aches and pains, burns and bruises, I would not trade my life for any other's right now. This is a big deal for me. I spent most of my life wishing to be someone else, somewhere else. Could it be that I'm getting comfortable in my own skin? I would never have dreamt such a thing to be possible.
Only becoming published could possibly make my life better right now. Speaking of publishing, I must write so that there is something to publish. I shall leave you with today's Forgotten English and get on with it.
A name given in allusion to hens, to that kind of defective vision which is comparatively good by day but lost or obscure by night.
- Rev. John Boag's Imperial Lexicon of the ENglish Language, c. 1850
Hens ... cannot see to pick up small grains in the duck of the evening, and so employ this time in going to roost; [this] is sometimes called hen-blindness.
- John Good's Study of Medicine, 1834