I wanted to write some fiction tonight, but it's not going to happen. A lovely shingles outbreak has emerged on the right side of my face, just below my temple. My cheek has swollen considerably, and is in quite a lot of pain. It looks like I've been stung by a bee. Right now it's burning and throbbing like mad. An unbelievable amount of heat comes off the thing. The skin on the surface has begun to blister and scale. Pure sexiness.
Coincidentally, I'm exhausted. I think I'll go to sleep soon.
I'd told the Pofuser I would write something about it, about how my shingles are like a tenant I can't evict, but I've lost interest. My body's become a lavish and lush, luxury housing complex for the virus. Good old Zoster set up residency in the Penthouse suite, perched right atop the cheekbone, with a bird's eye view of it all.
I can't remember the joke now, but I guarantee you it was mediocre and only barely funny at the time.
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