I have the physique of a writer

I think the world is ganging up on me. I really do. None of the things I like to do involve running about, getting out of breath or allowing my heart rate to get much higher than it is when I am lying very still in bed. I am in peak physical condition for someone who is exceptionally lazy.

But I have crap eyes. Really, really crap eyes. And my wrists are quite rickety.

My body could have any ailment that it wanted. I mean, if there was something wrong with it that meant it was dangerous for me to climb mountains or swim oceans, I really wouldn’t mind. I’d probably never find out.

I only like writing and reading.

I can’t believe it. Most of the time it outrages me. I am outraged. Actually, as we speak, I am outraging. You can imagine me, if you like, getting all incredulous and high-pitched. I would do some gesturing and may be a bit of pacing about, but I’m not up to it. I am practically at death’s door. I am Suffering.

I was sitting nicely typing stories – mixing it up now and again by lying and reading books. And then my crap eyes and rickety wrists started chiming for attention. It gets my goat. My goat is got.

The only good thing about it is that it gives me fodder for whining and hypochondria. These are my secondary hobbies.

One of my new Essentials for Life is going to be laser eye surgery. 

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