You know it’s bad when
you go to a chiropractor and mid-way through the diagnostic exam they just sort of look at you with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Not that "oh, yes, many problems, yes, many visits, yes, mm-hmm" look that you know is shit, but the sort that they can’t fake.
He also freakishly knew just where to touch and how to move stuff, and then he’d say, "Is that tight?" as I went into orbit.
No idea what, if anything, this will do. But at least I’m not sitting at home popping vicodin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone just crapped in the litterbox and it smells like a toilet in here, and I must tidy up a bit and try to squeeze in some gym before I go pick up Anna.
Body for sale: cheap.