The party is OVER.

I am officially a sandbag with legs.

A complete dead weight. I have reached a point where I can barely move, and I’m not even exaggerating. My muscles no longer do what I tell them. I say “sit up,” and they say, “FORGET IT.” I say, “let’s roll over,” and they say, “YOU MUST BE JOKING.” I say, “pee,” and my bladder says, “THANKS, BUT I DON’T FEEL LIKE IT RIGHT NOW. EVEN THOUGH I’M PERPETUALLY TRICKING YOU INTO THINKING YOU’VE REALLY REALLY REALLY GOTTA GO.”

I am so screwed.

Alas, I must find a way to turn off the alarm clock every morning without torquing my back. I must actually heave myself out of bed. I must find a way to bend forward 45 degrees to wash my face. And somehow get my support hose over my toes in the morning without tearing a gigantic hole in them whilst yanking them up my legs.

As for the belly, imagine what it would feel like to stuff a large raccoon into a watermelon skin and then wear it. The raccoon doesn’t want to be in the watermelon. The watermelon is not meant to hold a large raccoon. And yet that’s the situation, whether the raccoon (or the watermelon) likes it or not.

And yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel about now. If I could take zoo tranquilizers, I would. If only I could down a bottle of Cap’n Morgan to drown my sorrows. Or just have one measly day off from wearing this baby-suit so I could come back fresh. I think I know what it must have been like to be a medieval knight and have to lug around 50 pounds of armor every damn day. Well, sort of. Speaking of which, how did they relieve themselves when they were all suited up? Maybe they could stick their willy out. But what if they had to poo?

Stay tuned for next week’s installment, “I thought I was miserable LAST week.” (Somebody SHOOT ME NOW) (PRETTY PLEASE)