Mojo's Carnival of Smiles

These are all the posts I made after seriously injuring myself, describing the accident and my eventual recovery. Many of them were written under the influence of prescription drugs. If you ever got high or drunk and convinced yourself you were really funny so you got a tape recorder to record just how incredibly marvelously hysterical you were, and then played it back when you were sober only to discover it wasn't funny at all.... wait, where was I? Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed suffering third degree burns for your entertainment. You're welcome.

Mojo's Obsession

Well, one of 'em, anyway.

It's my arm. Yes, the hurt one. I stopped whining about it so much, because it's tiresome and doesn't accomplish anything and people have taken to looking at the ceiling when Mojo enters the room. More so than usual. So I have taken the hint.

It officially closed sometime in late November, and I foolishly assumed the end was near. Foolish, foolish Mojo! When will she learn? (Answer: Never.) Since then it has just been kind of dull and achey, turning different colors on a daily basis but mostly being puffy and various shades of red and purple.

My Anniversary

Tomorrow is my six-month anniversary of Mojo's Carnival of Smiles. And it's still hurt and healing. At least I assume it's healing. Truth is, it hasn't changed much in appearance the last three months or so. Still looks the same, just with different degrees of hurtiness that changes day to day.

But the best part is, I have a cold. I thought I might during my computer marathon, and sure enough I do. So it just goes to show you, computers are bad for your health. I have now SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN IT.

Mojo's Complaining Again.

Amazingly enough, I am discovering over the span of the last several months that a fairly large third-degree burn on a sensitive part of one's anatomy is not as much fun as one might think.

Yes, Mojo is complaining about her arm again. To be honest, she has never STOPPED complaining about it. Just not on the blog. So if you are fortunate enough not to know Mojo personally (despite you lifelong hopes and desires) you have been spared her continual sniveling.

Happy Burnday!

No, not burthday. That was a week ago yesterday, thank you very much for all the large expensive gifts. (I DO accept large expensive gifts all month, if one is thus inclined). No, today is the first anniversary of Mojo's Carnival of Smiles, a source for many more amusing complaints and whinings than even Mojo is ordinarily capable of.

Happy Burnday!

Whoohoo! Three years and counting! And, ironically, I woke up this morning to an email saying my new well pump is being shipped! So I will probably be spending a belated Burnday down at the Scene of the Crime installing the friggin' thing. Hooray!

Okay, Mojo Is Willing to Concede the Well Pump Is Indeed Trying to Kill Her

Fans of the Craptacular have known for some time--due to Mojo’s incessant whining about it--that Mojo and her well pump have, shall we call, A History. A history that has yet to involve personal injury lawyers and expensive litigation, but she's not quite ready to close the door on THAT path. But for now... well, they say one should keep one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Looks like I have to move my bed down into the cellar and sleep near the well pump.

But first, a technical primer for those who live where there is REAL water service, and not out in the sticks where one must pray to the Evil Rain Gods for the privilege of having wet stuff come out of the faucets on a semi-regular basis. You see, unlike you citified "Just shut up and call a plumber already" sorts, Mojo has a well. Granted it is one step up from the hang-a-bucket-on-a-rope-and-twirl-it-down-to-the-water well, but the principle is the same. Instead of having picturesque rock-wall sides and a mossy wooden roof, Mojo's well is the more modern kind--essentially a big ol' pipe that got hammered into the ground until it pierced the water table, and then connecting the pipe to the side of the house.

INSIDE the house is where the fun begins.

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