Dogs, pain, and testicles.

1 beef bone
1 pork femur
1 rope toy
1 squeaky toy
6 pumpkins.

Guess which of those things is the dog’s preferred item to GNAW ON?

And then PUKE UP?

Stupid frakking dog.

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When booting (literally) the naughty miscreant out the back door this morning, my shin connected with the stubby bony end of her nearly hairless tail. I now am developing what will be one of the most spectacular bruises I’ve had in a long time.

For a moment I was hopeful that I’d burst a blood vessel or something dramatic, but it seems that I’m not to be treated to that bloom of hot pain. Damn. Now I must settle for POKING at it to feel the burn, as it were, and that’s not nearly enough reward.

I am someone who lives life on a very weird edge, or so it would appear. I don’t mind being in pain, as long as I know it’s temporary. There’s a very real sense of being alive when something hurts, and that? Is fucking odd to say. If I’d been born 30 years or so after I was, I’m sure I’d see the appeal in body mods and all that crazy-shit ‘cutting,’ because I’m sort of strange like that and would do something much more extreme if it was more accepted.

This acceptance of pain as a sign of being alive is, I’m sure, what drove me many years ago to spend hours and hours a day in the gym. I couldn’t get ENOUGH of weights, or building up muscle over muscle, of straining HARD against the machines, of making the more delicate flowers look askance at me as I grunted with the effort of taking on 5 or 10 more pounds for those crucial final 12 reps. It felt GOOD to work like that. It felt GREAT to finish with a grueling 30-minute ride on the exercise bike set 2 levels higher than it should have been. It was wonderful to push so hard that I’d often be weak-kneed and dizzy at the end of a workout, and it was glorious to see the results of that effort and pain on my body.

Even now, if I’m going to exercise (which is an embarrassingly low percentage of the time), I don’t just go out for a nice walk, I have to POWER walk. Can’t just do a few sit-ups, I have to do 50 of them on an excer-ball with only one foot on the ground. Push, push, push, wait for the burn, and then enjoy the pain the next day when lactic acid eats away at sore muscles.

That’s just weird, isn’t it?

And probably TMI, but whatever. My blog = my brain, and today? Pain is what you get.

You’re welcome.

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Last night I watched Mike Rowe bite the testicles off a lamb.

It was enough to turn even MY stomach, and that is saying quite a bit right there.

Would it gross YOU out?