Drink of choice: Would’ve been my Father’s birthday today, so a Vodka Martini, rocks, olives. Enjoyed many with him. Gotta go this one by myself, but not alone.

Music of choice: Feeling lazy. Apple Radio, Indie & Alternative. Its working.

Got castrated Thursday. Again. Six down, seven to go. Talk about “Groundhog Day.” Bill Murray ain’t seen nothing. Welcome to the Long Middle. The start is far enough behind, but the end is not in sight. A bit like life, really.

Fighting the urge to cry and I have no fucking idea why. (“Blitkrieg Bop”, The Ramones. You bet).

Walked around all day today and could barely stay connected to my legs. No idea what’s up with that. Just couldn’t really feel them. Vaguely aware of their existence, knew they were providing locomotion, but just wasn’t connected to them.

Exercise has been sparse. Work, weather, powerful drugs. A diablo conspiracy. But I finally did two consecutive lifts. Harder than hard. But I did it. (Now “Psycho Killer”- it all adds up).  There has been some slippage. Weather improving, must get back into a disciplined schedule. Its the only way. Still time to meet my goals, but I must not tarry. Must re- engage with the stairs, but until then absolutely have to get my lifts in.

To be honest, lifting today was just this side of decent Acid. And, the lift and side effects only lasted about two hours, an improvement over Mr. Leary’s recipe. It felt good, but way out of body.

The long middle. We all have to deal with it. I get to go through it at least twice. Updates are less frequent. I am in the Middle Age of dealing with this, and nothing is more mind numbing than being in the Middle Age. I’ve found. Here but not here. Take the kids to school, go to work, get the kids from school, cook dinner, put the kids to bed, wash the dishes, go to bed. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.  Get castrated, get weird, dance with depression, slowly feel better and just when you do, repeat. The Long Middle.

Many thanks for reading, many thanks for being with me throughout. Love is all there is.

 

 

 

Drink of Choice: Akiyoshi 2015 Lodi Chardonnay, Sur Lie aged. Caught you by surprise. Not my usual, but this is quite good.

Music of Choice: Yo Yo Ma and Stuart Duncan, “The Goat Rodeo Sessions.” Yo Yo is a Rock Star of Cello. Its been a few centuries.

What a difference a week makes. When last we heard, your trusty correspondent was a Train Wreck. I knew it was going to be a rough week. Got my injections on a Thursday and then had a very stressful ensuing work week. Not a good cocktail. But alls well that ends well (I think I read that somewhere). The pesky client has paid in full, although I deign to say they’re no longer a client. Until they need me again in an emergency.

So we move on. Big difference this week is I’m finally getting some sleep. And Whatta difference. Night terrors have abated and I’m spending the entire night in bed instead of on the couch watching George Lopez reruns. Not sure what messed with my head more- not sleeping or George Lopez. Still, a mess.

I find that party planning helps. Over the holidays we hosted Christmas dinner for family and friends and had our biggest, best New Year’s Eve Party ever. Its only taken living here for 23 years, but we’ve developed a large enough circle of friends in the neighborhood that we can do these.

So the planning is underway for “56 going on Whatever” to be held a week from Saturday to celebrate my 56th. Haven’t been big on Birthday celebrations for myself, but dealing with Cancer puts a new spin on things. Someday it will be your last. From here on out, they all get celebrated.

Funny old things, birthdays. When you were young it was all-“Yay, Presents,” or “Yay, I get my drivers license,” or “Yay, I’m 21,” or “Yay! You’re not the boss of me anymore.” You get the idea.

Then comes the great middle. Kids, work, life. Your birthday rolls around and its just another day. “Wanna go out?” “Nah, I have to get up tomorrow.” Every now and again its on a weekend and you might do something- or not. It feels like it will go on forever. You know it won’t, but it feels that way.

Next thing you know you’ve got cancer, they remove body parts you were quite fond of and then chemically remove your balls. Sleep doesn’t come easily, sex is a fond memory and you get Hot Fucking Flashes incessantly. For reasons known only to god and mammon you tell valued clients to “Go fuck Yourself.” Suddenly your birthday becomes something to celebrate again. “I’m not dead yet.” You realize- this will not go on forever. Sooner or later, we will all celebrate our last birthday.

So we plan. The format. A Blind tasting of twelve California Red Wines. Most are under $20, a few are over. There will be food. And more food. Vitello Tonno, Carpaccio, Steak Tartare, a Grande Aioli, Brochettes of Beef and Lamb. Perhaps Elk Mini- burgers. Cheeses. Other things. Capon and Sack and the Chimes at Midnight. At least 16 people will be here. My Mother is coming, which is so exciting, cause, you know, she was at my very first birthday, the “0” years old one. If you are reading this, you are invited. Please come. Valet parking, food, drink. Nearby hotels and drivers to get you there. A Sunday Brunch to follow. Please come. 6133 S Greenwood, Chicago. Anytime after 6:00 p.m., wine tasting to start at 7:00. Also, please RSVP. Planning. Its a theme.

Tomorrow and your next Birthday are not promised. Stop ignoring them. Start embracing them. Celebrate them. One of them will be your last.

In the meantime, you are loved. Rejoice in it and be glad.

P.s. Extra credit for getting the Monty Python Reference

 

 

Drink of choice: Stloi/ Dolin on the rocks with a Pinxto of blue cheese manzanilla olives and guindilla peppers. I know, it sounds like a hot mess and my Basque friends might not approve, but its quite good. Music of choice: Nirvana; Nevermind. Top five shit. Full disclosure: my top five comprises about 50 recordings. Still.

So the drugs are working. Thank you drugs. I will not die from or with prostate cancer. Two months in a row of undetectable PSA’s. For all intents and purposes, the cancer has been defeated.

But, at a cost. Chemical castration. (Loving me some Dave Grohl). What happens? Well this.

I am a menopausal Bitch in a Man’s body. Hot flashes, etc. well established, but wait: There’s more.

I had my most recent injections a week ago Thursday. Five days after is the nadir of the cycle. It slowly improves from there. Just when I start to feel better, time for the next one.

This week I had a huge job with a client. Big Time big boy shit. Three day colonoscopy. Rough stuff. I dd real well. We passed with a grade of “B.” Unheard of for a first time audit.  We did it. Yay. etc.

On day two I get a voicemail from another client that owes me money. New CFO, never met him, past due of 6 months; ten large. Reason to be feisty on my part. (New Music: Roy Orbison: Anthology. Yes. Top five).

I, for reasons only known to the gods, return his call. After Day Two of the audit and enough vodka to tranquilize a large mammal. “Cause it was Day Two.

I can hear “East/West Coast Millennial”in his voice. “Hi Jay, I want to come to some resolution, blah, blah, fucking blah, happy to offer you 50 cents on the dollar.” Not a great start. Remember here- I’ve seen every Tarantino film, can recite Godfather I and II by heart and, had life taken a different turn, might have auditioned for a part on The Soprano’s.

Please also remember, I am a castrati. The effects are at their peak. I am a Menopausal bitch from Queens. On a really bad day. Or fill in your personal blank here to define Menopausal Bitch, And yes I know its sexist. Until there’s a new vocabulary, I work with what Shakespeare had at his disposal.

My response to condescending millennial boy: “Go fuck yourself.”

Pause.

Suffice there was a tit for tat, a realization on my part that maybe I went a bit hard on College boy’s ass, an attempt at an apology, a refusal to accept, some panic that I just blew 10 large, etc…

So its a side effect. There have been other incidents. One involved a DQ Peanut Buster Parfait and a soiled vehicle plus tender nerves. “Nuf said (Red Wine now. its good).

I think that when its all over I’ll have to invoke Steps Eight and Nine. Small price to pay.

“They were the best of times, they were the worst of times…”

Peace, Love and thanks for reading, keeping me in your thoughts and being you. We are all special, you more than most.

Post Script: The owner of the company reached out to me this afternoon. An amicable resolution is within reach.

 

 

 

 

Drink of Choice: Starting with Stoli Elite Vodka, Chilled, up, olives. Moving to Pol Roger Champagne. Its what we English Majors call “Foreshadowing.”

I had not been looking forward to today, the day of my fourth “Juicing” as I like to call it. I suppose the clinical terms would be more along the lines of receiving my sub- cutaneous injections of Degaralix. Call it what you will, a rose is a rose by any other name and it gets a little rough around here after them, and with Christmas nigh upon us, I’d just as soon not. But we marshal on.

Part of my mission here is to be informational and educational so that I might help others. Heres how it works being a Cancer Patient.

On appointment day, first you get your blood drawn. Oncology has its own dedicated phlebotomy area and lab, for quick turnarounds. The receptionist will ask, “Arm or Port?” Took me a minute on my first visit to process this. I was happy to say “Arm,” and immediately reflect and understand that there are (always) those that have it worse. The blood work is dependent on Your Cancer. I get five different tests: Basic & Comprehensive (Sodium, Potassium, glucose, etc.), Testosterone, Thyroid, Plate Count, Cell Counts and PSA’s. Again, your mileage may vary.

Then you go across the hall to Oncology proper, where you wait. They are waiting for the blood work which is fast, but not immediate. And you wait. And then, just when you are quite tired of waiting, you wait some more. If your appointment is at 10, think elevensies.  You’ll be close.

Nice thing about being a Cancer Patient is that there is food and drink. I’ve experienced a few Oncology Departments and the level of care is always way better than say, orthopedics. The best employees work in oncology. There are Volunteers. Beverages. Snacks. I don’t eat the snacks, but appreciate their availability. Its a nice touch. I do have the coffee and water. It makes you feel better. Someone- a complete stranger at that- cares.

Finally your name gets called. Vitals are taken by a nice person whose name you can’t quite remember but it starts with “M.” And then you wait some more. You might nod off, you might pace a ten by ten room with no windows. You might check email, FB, whatever 100 times.  I’ve done all of the above. Today.

BTW- We’re on to the Pol Roger. Simply the best mid- level Champagne. Ask Sir Winston Churchill. Or Her Majesty The Queen. Good Stuff.

As I am part of a Clinical trial, I have a sub-set of special rules. I have to bring my drug diary and, for some unknown reason, every month I get a 30 day supply of the experimental drug, but I am on a 28 day injection cycle. So I have to bring my extra pills back or they won’t give me more.  I am assigned to a special Nurse for this part of the program, Elia, a kind but firm special Nurse.

Today as I was waiting in my 10 x 10 cell to see the Oncologist Elia came in with my Meds, hand extended. “Congratulations,” she said as she handed me a pile of papers. It was today’s results from the blood work. My heart quickened and I rapidly scanned the results. There on the second page, last line, after the potassium, BUN, Anion Gap and 100 other things I don’t (but should) give a shite about (Why? I asked myself, Why?) were my PSA’s- <0.05; “Undetectable.”

Which brings us to the Pol Roger. I am cured and Cancer Free. I will not die from or with Prostate Cancer. I have no more Prostate cells in my body, which means I have no more prostate Cancer cells in my body. No remission, no relapse- Cured.

I confirmed with the Oncologist. I asked if there was any chance the numbers could bounce back up. “He shook my hand and ‘No’ was all he said.” (Extra credit if you get that reference).

The next question was “what’s next?” Well, My year as a Eunuch carries on. Eight more months of Androgen Deprivation Therapy, eight more months of Hot Flashes, Night Terrors, and fighting to get to the Gym. But not eight months of wondering if its all worth it. It is. So it will be easier. I look forward to September 2018, but I also look forward to more years of breathing on Planet earth.

And so it is Christmas. I have received the finest gift ever. And I find it appropriate to receive it now. To me Christmas has always been about the promise of a better day. Easter is out there, but Christmas is the promise of it. I receive it gratefully and humbly.

And so, I wish to you, my dear special friends who have helped me through these last months with your thoughts and prayers, the promise of a better day. The Light will return. The Dark will fade. Be strong and have hope. And know you are not alone.

Merry Christmas to all, and again, my thanks. Peace and Love. Its all we need.

 

 

 

 

Music: Lou Reed Live, “Such a Perfect Day, I’m Glad I Spent it with you.” Drink of Choice: Red Wine, Paso Robles, Blend, $10 or thereabouts. Quite good. Most are.

Took a “Me Day.” Got up at 05:00. Had a square and a shite. Went back to bed. It was a rough night- most are. Got two good hours. Got up again, went to the gym. (Staying with a Lou Reed Theme here. Feels right.) Got in a good lift. Two Sets, Fifteen reps each move. 15 Moves. Little over an hour.

Came home, did some work, laid down for a short spell. Went back to the gym. Did another set. Spent the next 45 minutes focused on chest, shoulders and Tri’s. Got home at 16:30. Went and got my deep fryer from the Swim Party (see previous post).

A couple of martini’s, red wine follow, cooking a nice dinner- spaghetti squash, red sauce and meat balls. Leftovers, sure.

If I could only d this every day. But I can’t. The Real World Beckons. Somewhere in the foggy distance. It too must be met.

But still, it was a Perfect Day.

Drink of Choice: I’ll have what Maggie’s having. Provided she followed my imprecise instructions. Music of Choice: See the title. Unplugged on MTV. A channel that has lost its relevance but this is it at it peak. Followed by Patti Smith’s version. If you know you know…

At some point in this process, Gender issues were going to be a thing. The drugs I take would be appropriate for a man desiring Sex Change. I don’t; but still, the effects are the same. Not growing tits. Yet. There’s still time.

Getting more and more emotional every day. This is not sexist; Testosterone and Estrogen are powerful Neurotransmitters. Perhaps the most powerful when we speak of Gender. Had a hard time sleeping last night thinking I might have said the wrong thing. Most days I’m an emotional wreck. I manage, but its right there, under the surface. Still many months to go, so I have to strategize. There are moments when I am just a Bitch. No other way to describe it.

This whole thing has been about strategizing. When I feel something, I try to get in touch with it- bad, really bad or, fuck me you’re kidding. Only then can I analyze it and prepare myself for the next round, better prepared, I hope.

To that end,  I am getting much better at dealing with The Night. Its just as bad- worse actually. Imagine you had a switch that said “Sweat A lot. Now.” I have one. But. Many pillows. Scattered  throughout the bed. One always has a Cool Side. Shortens the duration. I have like, nine. Would like more.

In the same vein, after cooking for 71 people yesterday at someone else’s house, I was beat this morning. Still managed to get out, do 35 stories of stairs and a five mile walk. Light by my standards, but some days its about breaking even.

Maggie asked me today if this a spiritual journey. In short, maybe, but not likely. I am a Rationalist. I have to deal with the medicine, the hard work. I do not believe in The Man in The Sky. Which is not to say that I know the Unknowable. But because it is Unknowable, I have to deal with what is in front of me. Many prefer to ascribe their situation to a god. I do not feel that if They exist that they give  rat’s ass about me. So I prefer to take my journey holding your hand. That feels real; that feels good. Thank you. I just elevated you to the position of a god. Perhaps not a God, but still. Many thanks.

However, I’m starting to feel a middle ground. Not quite here, not quite there. Neither Male nor Female. Still very much Human, but a bit verklempt.

I find that, for the first time, and for a good time,  I plan  every hour. I think in terms of “This, then that.” I hear successful people  do this. Maybe it will rub off.

As I leave, Patti Smith covered the title. She called it “About a Boy.”  Get both. I do.

Hard to say. So much lies in The Middle. Good luck.

Stay with me. I need you. We can do this. Together. Life is short. Life is Hard, Hang on. I’ll be there with you.

 

Drink of Choice: 2014 Conundrum, California, Charles F Wagner, Proprietor. Music of Choice: U2, Joshua Tree. Never gets old. Either one.

When your intrepid reported last posted, things were weird. Let’s all hold hands, sing Kumbaya and get used to that. This is a Marathon not a sprint. Sadly, I was built for speed, not for distance. That’s another post.

Good news. I got over my fear of stairs yesterday. Can’t explain it, but I was afraid. Shortness of breath, the whole monty, just thinking about it. Only one way I know to overcome a fear: confront it. I learned this lesson the hard way in August of 1970. I was in a boating accident; almost drowned, my sister Jill, may she not be forgotten, did. They got me back on the water almost immediately (I was 8, so it might have been a day or two- it was my first LSD like experience, so, you know; room for error).

I did not Rip it. In the a.m. I walked- just walked- three sets- 27 stories, up and down. I the afternoon I ran the same. Wanted to do more, but that is for another day. I will get there. I promise. Overcoming fear is not immediate. I know. These things take time.

Got to the Gym today. Heavy lifts, Five reps, twelve moves. New high weights. Three sets. Felt it and it was good. Getting there. Interim goal is to bench my weight+ during treatment. Did three sets at 130 lbs. , five reps each, so I am getting there. Again: Old, Stage III, No Testosterone. Not bad. I will make it. I love lifting weights. As a matter of clinical research, I rock a size “M” T-Shirt.

The last two nights have been better. Still some silliness, but manageable.

So it would appear, at this point, that the first few days post-injection are okay, but then the next few run hot. Literally and figuratively. And more than a little weird. Free confession. In my youth I might have experimented with a psychedelic or two. The memory is serving me well. I know how to ride this out. I hope.

As part of the Clinical Trial, I keep a Drug Diary. Today I turned a page. Now on Page 4 of 12. Thus the title of this post. Great news- I’m on page four. Bad news- 8 pages to go. September 27, 2018. Worst Acid Timothy Leary imagined didn’t last that long. But, Timothy Leary Said…

Must go. Doing my part to cook for 70 people tomorrow. Not a Jay 70 people, but an actual head count. U High Women’s Swim Team End of Year Banquet. I am making two pastas, Prime Rib, Chicken Wings, Sausage and peppers, Guacamole and Rancho Gordo’s Thanksgiving Salad- wild rice, beans, fruit, other things, vinaigrette. Off the chain.

All you need is Love. Really. Thanks for yours. Every thing else is over rated. Thanks for reading. Just Thanks.

 

Drink of Choice: I’ll have whatever he’s having, but make it a double.

Day 9: I finally did it. Got in a “Normal” Thursday lift. Almost. But acceptable.

After (another) rough night- this is becoming a common theme- I was able to drag my ass out of bed and get to the gym at 06:05. I did not want to. The lift was hard. Today called for sets of 10 reps each, 12 total moves. I got two full sets in this a.m. Walked it off a bit, got home, had a coffee, managed to make myself presentable (such as is possible) found my way to two workplaces and was productive. All in one diaper. Yay me!

Got home around 15:00 with two clear choices- get back to the gym or have a lie down. You can guess what I wanted to do, but I went to the Gym instead. Got in Two more sets. Forty total reps at each move for the day, 12 total moves. Acceptable. I prefer 50, but 40 is within range. All at good weights. A total of 110 minutes of lifting. Not bad for an old man. With Stage III Cancer. In month Three of Androgen Depravation Therapy. Next round is Saturday. Sets of Five Reps at max weight. My favorite. Don’t know why, but I love the heavy weights at lower reps. Just feels good.

I must get after The Stairs tomorrow. I don’t know why, but I am suddenly afraid of them. I’ve done so many and know them so well, but; there is no other way to describe it; I am afraid. Only way to overcome fear is to confront it. So I WILL go tomorrow and I WILL do stairs. As I have often told myself as I mentally prepared for them; just do one. If you feel up to it, do another, but focus on The One. Its always worked in the past, hopefully it will again.

Starting to feel another side effect nipping at my heels; Depression. Not profound, but noticeable. Thinking it might be time to relocate the Home Protection Devices for a spell until I am sure. Please don’t call 911. We’re cool baby. For now.

I think the depression is three fold. First, it is a clinical side effect of the drugs. Second, I have missed some exercise metrics this week, and that make me angry and sad. Third, this week has been a real bitch and there are 301 days left to go. It appears to be getting worse. 301 days is a long time to endure this shit. I’d really like it to be over. Soon. But it won’t be. Time to engage the Oncology Psychologist I think. She is a helpful resource.

Thought about a vacation- get away somewhere nice. Problem is I’ll just have to deal with the same things, but somewhere else. At a higher per diem. Without the same resources. So here I’ll stay.

Happy news (we take it where it comes); getting a new ride. Due to the Fucked up nature of the US Tax Code- don’t get me started- My partner and I can save a lot of money by getting other taxpayers- you, for example- to help finance the purchase of a large automobile for me and a Truck for Him. Like I said, Fucked up, and Thank you. Have my eye on an Acura MDX, Fully Loaded. Sweet Ride. Blows hot water up your ass at high speeds. I think.

Holidays are upon us. Would love to see as many of you as I can. A trip to TPA is in order and we are arranging. TL- we must have dinner at the Princess again. But soon, as time runs short. Tim and Susan- Love to treat at The Beef House if you’re up for it.

Much Love, thanks for the prayers, Good Thoughts and just being you. I’m a better, happier human for knowing you.

 

 

Drink of Choice: The usual please. And buy one for my good friend at the end of the bar.

I got my most recent injections of Degarelix on Wednesday last as previously noted. Bears repeating that it is working. It is also kicking my ass.

I don’t mind quite as much knowing it is working, but since one of the aims of this blog is to memorialize the experience, without further ado, let’s go.

Day of injection: No problem. Had a great workout that afternoon.

Next day: Thanksgiving day. Went M&P’s, had a great time.

Day Three: Cooked Thanksgiving Dinner for 20. No problem.

Day Four: Got up, cleaned the kitchen (See Day Three). Had a great Lift at the Gym, came home, enjoyed a movie marathon with Phyllis and Jessica, Crapped out early.

Day Five: Rose early enough, did my laundry. Made my way to the train, went downtown,   did some shopping, but. Started feeling disconnected. Made it there and back, but was never quite “There.” If you know what I mean.

Night of day five: “The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors.” Worst night ever. Hot Flashes, if you can call five minutes plus a Flash. Nights Sweats, Night Terrors, generally Freaking out. It was warm; 74°F. Even Frank the Pug was having a rough night. He and I commiserated more than once.

Day Six: Had planned on doing stairs. HAH! I could barely get out of bed and then had trouble finding my way around a 1250 square foot condo. Needed to go to the office but there was no way. I could not trust myself to get behind the wheel of a large automobile. I managed to eek out just enough work from home to keep the wolves at bay. I did something I never do- I ate lunch. Sensible, but still calories. Leftovers. See Day Three. I took a nap. Here’s a twist- I was cold. Needed a blanket. Fucked up shit right there. Twelve hours earlier I would have gladly jumped into Lake Michigan. All 43°F of it. Got up, did a little (very) work and had a few adult beverages, and then a few more; cooked a hamburger or three for dinner and went to bed. Set my alarm (which I rarely do) for 5:00 a.m. I was not going to miss a weight lifting session. Somewhere in the middle my very best Fitbit friend messaged me. She thought I hadn’t synched. I wish. Thanks TL for checking. Just getting my ass kicked. Don’t worry, I’ll apply pressure soon enough.

Day Seven (Today): Alarm woke me at 05:00. Good. All as planned. I got up. Yay. Found my way to the back porch for a square (yah, I know). Said “Fuck It” and went back to bed. Finally got up, against my better judgement, at 07:30. Managed to go to various work sites (after, you know, shaving, getting dressed, etc.). Got home at 14:00 and went to the Gym. I got my Tuesday Lift in- 15 reps, two sets- but man was it hard. Brutal. Gassed after every move. But I did it. Managed to walk home, if only just. And here I am. Exhausted, a bit afraid of the night ahead.

But it is working. As I keep telling myself, and anyone who will listen, it beats dying. And it does. By a country mile. But still, I could have gone my whole life without it. Its just an ass whuppin” I have to take. For 40 more weeks. Thank you Sir, may I have another?

I have two more hurdles to clear. PSA’s need to drop to “Undetectable,” and my next scans need to be clean. If we meet those, the finest corks in the land will be popped. You are welcome to join. 6133 S Greenwood, 3N, Chicago, 60637. I’ll inform you of the date. Hopefully it is soon. Taking Champagne recommendations. My go to is Pol Roger (Sir Winston Churchill’s favorite- how he got it in the middle WW II, I’ll never know).

Until then, tomorrow is another day. I am glad for it and will make the most of it, whatever that might mean. Thanks for reading. Much love. Because, in the end, its all we really have. Everything else is just noise and clutter.

Drink of choice: (Yes, its 1:30 in the afternoon. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner for daughters, wife and friends. I put my work in; I’ve earned this one). Chenin Blanc is the order of the day. Starting off with a lovely South African from the Badenhorst Family (I know which side of the Boer Wars they fought on). Moving on to the Loire Valley after that with a couple of promising Vouvrays.

This will have to be brief as I am cooking for 20, even though there are only 6 of us. If you know me, this makes perfect sense.

I do, however, want to memorialize an eventful day. I got up this morning, put on underwear and a light pad. Went to the store, I’ve been cooking non- stop and I still haven’t changed pads. But, there’s this. Today is the first day since June 21st that I have not worn a full fledged diaper. Until you’ve been through this, you cannot know what a true milestone this is. I’m wearing underwear. The white kind, made of cotton. I do not look like I’m wearing a codpiece. Because, for the first time in five months, I am not.

That’s all I have time for. If you’re not busy, please do come by. Dinner will be about 4ish. Come as you are. We have plenty.

Now I must go piss. Standing up. Just like the Big Boys do.

Its the little things.