Oh for a lover, just about now, who gives a good massage. Or, hell, a mere acquaintance who gives a good massage, and wants to give me one. I would so return the favor.
So here's a milestone, this new year.
I exist in parallel universes.
It's a sliding-doors-y schism man-that-really-messed-with-my-head thing. There's this other Starship Lisa-prise, see, and everybody's pretty much the same, except in this one some people have a moustache who don't in the other, the one we started out on. We all seem to've ended up on this one, unlike in the TV show, and in some ways it's actually better, even though you wouldn't think it with the moustaches. And it was always here anyway, even when I was ignorant of it, back in the before world. And a thought once thought cannot be unthought. So you have to end up in the moustached Songs of Experience reality, right?
You know. Wm Blake. No, not that actor who was a Li'l Rascal then Baretta then watered-down O.J.
I'm not drunk, btw. Tired and sore. Did I mention sore? Neck, feet. Back.
Remind me to write about my evolving relationship with my muscles. My musculature.
So wasn't there something in that episode of Star Trek, or another, in which somebody explains how the two things from the parallel realities can't meet in the same time and place or the fabric of spacetime will rip or explode and everything will cease to exist entirely? 'Cept that can't be right, cuz Regular Capt. Kirk actually physically wrestles with moustached Capt Kirk, doesn't he. Oh, but of course one of them's a stand-in for Shatner, so that's maybe why the universe doesn't implode upon itself.