Hello, My Name Is Gaelic, and I'm an Addict

The good news is that all five pins were removed from my finger last week.  The bad news is that the bruise covers half my palm and it's that putrid purplish-greenish color.  The doctor prescribed Oxycontin.  I love that man!

However, that's not what I'm addicted to.  When the entire weekend is spent in bed in a drugged-up stupor, Facebook and work are prohibited on the doctor's orders.  Lest I write something that I would later regret.  At this point, the drugs have lessened and it's probably safe to go back in the writing pool.

Reading wasn't easy while on the heavy drugs.  No concentration.  Which means that movies were also too difficult to follow.  Even when Mr. Gaelic queued up an old Popeye cartoon, my mind couldn't stay on the plot.  Now that's saying a lot.

To occupy myself I reverted back to a deep, dark secret that only a few very close friends know about me.  It's my p*rn habit.  Actually, two different kinds.  Because I like to spice things up a bit.  My usual food p*rn websites make me hungry.  But the meds kept me from salivating too much over gorgeous photos of flan and roasts and cream sauces and wine sauces and, well, you get the picture.

So instead I indulged in my other p*rn habit.  House p*rn.  Maybe I'm a frustrated, closet architect.  Because I adore looking at house plans.  And you can keep your colonial, center-stairway, ranch, split-level, saltbox, McMansions.  I like modern house p*rn.  Give me concrete and steel and glass and cantilevers and hearthless fireplaces. 

This is one addiction that causes no harm.  Until it's time for the retirement house.