What a horrible day I'm having. I've been waking up around six AM all week. Not because I've been working. Six comes, I'm done. Yesterday seemed promising, but I'd committed to flying with my friend Joe. I hadn't been in a small plane in years, and didn't really want to go. And guess what? Small planes behave much differently from large, automated ones.
Then, today, waking early again, I checked email on my iPod. Another rejection. Normally, I shrug them off, but this was the earliest I've ever gotten one. To start the day with it was not good.
I'm depressed. Ready to quit. Wasting my time. The Mrs. and I took a good long walk, which is usually therapeutic. She's good for stuff like that. Listening to me whine about why I'm bothering with all this when I have a very good job and why can't I just be happy with that? It was decided writing is my passion. That which I do for free. For love. With or without recognition. Which should be something.
But at the moment, it isn't. Because walking six miles on my feet generally results in some sorry-ass pain.
I have heel spurs -- little hooks of bone on the bottom of each foot, straining tendons that aren't designed to strain. Standard treatment is a cortisone shot, which was scheduled pre-walk. Pre-rejection. A four inch needle plunged into my heel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the cortisone seeped into the tissue. Round and round, twisting and pushing, the needle found more and more nerves to terrorize.
The result: Nothing. Typical. I'm the 1% of people typical treatments don't work on.
And November is looming. I hate November. I'll be working Thanksgiving. Again. I have to study all month for my checkride. Again. So I don't lose my job and have the privilege of working on Thanksgiving taken away. This November, Joe is getting married. At Disney World. Thanksgiving weekend. I can't think of a worse place to go at a worse time. I want to do NaNo. Too much going on.