Aight, fine. It's only 10:30, and I have truly staggering amount of beer left, so I'll tell you a story.
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I would play racquetball, badly, with my friend, and I'd come out all exhausted and sweaty, and he'd condescend and such like.
But then when I went to the van, and levered myself up in to the seat, my forearms would be thick deep owwie.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my ex- (and bff) had been away on walkabout after we did hospice for her mother.
And she was back, and she stayed in my spare bedroom.
And we had a big argument.
I have no idea what it was about, no clue.
But I do know that I was in the wrong.
Sooooooo, fuck me, I went to her room, and crawled up the ladder to her loft bed, and apologized.
And I told her about this physical ailment, and my trips to the (seriously major hawt) doctor, and how we'd got *nuffin* so far.
And bestie said, "Did you tell her you were miserable all the time?"
Of course I didn't tell my doctor I was miserable all the time. Don't be ridiculous.
But.
But, you know, I had just had a big fight in which I was in the wrong, so I couldn't really quite rationalize telling bestie to fuck off.
So there I am, at the doctor's office (my goodness, she was a lovely woman), and you have to picture me, I'm maybe 25, 26, 27, it's unclear, but you have to picture me like a third grader.
I'm avoiding eye contact.
I'm digging my toe into the carpet.
I mumble, "Helen says I have to tell you I'm miserable all the time."
And she said, "Oh! That's interesting."
She asked me to wait a minute, cuz she had a little survey she wanted me to fill out.
And she brought me this little questionnaire, twelve questions, and asked me to quickly fill it out.
Somewhere around the age of 26 or so, I began to experience sharp and deep pain in the bones of my forearms.
I was rich then, so I went to the doctor.
She was DO, all of my best doctors have been DOs, and to be entirely transparent, she was *gorgeous*, and I had a huge crush on her.
And we did numerous tests, and we got nothing.