Surgeons found a bullet in the head of a 35-year-old man who did not realize he had been shot several years earlier. The man subsequently recalled receiving a blow to the head -- likely a celebratory gunshot, police said -- when drunk at a New Year's Eve party. - The Guardian
Hello Diary, it's a New Year! But I'm dragging. Last night: drinks with my boys, hilarious bets, and the loudest firecracker I've ever heard set off right behind my head. Now: the headache of a lifetime. Guess I can't take the boozing like I used to. Sucks getting old!
Headaches continue. First from a low-grade cold, then the cold headache turned into a caffeine headache! I just can't catch a break.
You're not going to believe this, Diary: last night I had a screaming headache from lack of sleep. Today, it's a screaming headache from over-sleeping. Oh and my ear started bleeding. Great.
Just noticed my Peter Frampton hat doesn't fit my head anymore. What happened? Sucks getting old!
My wife Kristin's birthday last night. Can't stand her meddling friends. For the last time, I'm not going to the hospital. My ear will stop bleeding when my ear stops bleeding.
Message to the world: Please. Stop. Shouting.
Huge lettuce-headache. Ugh.
Weird dream last night. I was Abraham Lincoln, in Ford's Theater, and John Wilkes Booth was standing in front of me with a smoking gun, asking "Are you SURE you're okay?" Whatevs.
Here's a routine for a standup comedian: why do shampoo commercials always show dandruff that's white? In real life, dandruff is scab-colored! And it's not "flakes", it's chunks. Commercials!
Kristin tried to trick me into going to the doctor -- she said she was taking me "to the park." Nice try. I figured it out when the receptionist called my name. I'm not an idiot.
My next-door neighbor has been playing the triangle for thirty hours straight. Loser. Real men play the Talkbox.
Rough patch with Cristin. Lots of talk of blood on pillows, frequent vomiting, avoiding doctors. But of course it's never REALLY about that. Trying to decode her messages.
Ha! Spanish guys at the barbershop are razzing me with a new nickname: "Spinal Fluid." You see, the best nicknames are just random words, based on nothing. Bravo, gentlemen. Bravo.
Headache due to Frampton-record label tension. Ugh.
New Year's resolution: Get in shape! I get fatigued just climbing the stairs, or sitting on the stairs, or sitting anywhere. Sucks getting old!
This is kind of funny: so, as a prank, some neighborhood teens snuck into our apartment and replaced all our light bulbs with those super-strength extra-white halogens. Heh. Boys will be boys.
Is there a book that describes the appropriate circumstances for storming out of a dinner party? Christin needs to read the page on "Because Your Wife's Friend Intentionally Seated You Next to A Meddlesome Neurologist -- On Your Twitchy Side." Just eat your salad, guy.
Amazing! That's the third consecutive low-grade earthquake to hit right when I stand up and try to walk! Thankfully no fatalities or injuries or damage.
Got a new job! They took me out of the warehouse -- in the middle of a fork-lift job -- and into the office. Not technically a promotion but they did give me my very own mandatory helmet!
Last night: drinks with my boys, rode the late bus home. Interestingly, the only other passenger was Ernest Hemingway. He was gone without a trace by the time I got to my stop. That guy can drink.
Couch-is-too-soft headache. Ugh.
Check this out, Diary: I went to a bank that employs twin tellers! Two identical tellers, standing next to each other, wearing the same outfits, talking in perfect unison. That bank is a freak show!
Chrisptism says during dinner I ingested part of my fork with my vegables. Nice try. If that's true, why's my tongue not bleeding very badly?
It's a new year! Super drunk last night. Loudest firecracker of my life went off right behind my tricep. Hurts to high-five.
Headaches and tricep-aches. Sucks getting old!