LUDIC LOG

"I am what you might call an expert on pain."

"You don't say."

"Oh, not the pain of others; as intriguing as it might be to imagine that you've stumbled upon a rather uninteresting, underacheiving professional torturer, I'm far too self-centered to spend my time cataloguing the agony of strangers."

"I was worried for a minute."

"And I don't mean it in the 'my pain is special' emotional sense, either: what I mean is that I can remember physical pain exceptionally well. A mixed blessing, you might call this; is there any other kind? I might respond."

"What a fascinating conversation."

"There are particular types of pain, though, that stand out as the class of their field and cause me to squirm in my seat as I recall them: the horrendous, paralyzing, pain of stomach cramps, which sensation recalls a large leather-bound fist repeatedly clenching inside your abdomen; the sharp, over-soon-but-not-soon-enough screech of a sudden burn; and the perennial male favorite, the shot to the nuts -- a pain that doesn't go away but simply takes up residence right above the evil chakras, lounging around and rendering you as useless and sloppy as an electrocuted squid."

"Your metaphors make my head hurt."

"That was a simile. But you get to the heart of the matter: the pain I just can't seem to deal with -- the one that climbs right on top of me and won't let go, the one that wins the coveted Room 101 award -- is so simple it might be called classic: a nice sharp blow to the head."

"Good idea."

"I hate. Hate. Hate getting hit on the head. It...just...KILLS me. I can't abide it. It not only hurts for real, but it hurts with that phantom pain that follows you around the rest of the day and makes you cringe for fear it's going to come back in full force. It makes me dig into my vast repertoire of maledictions and dig out some of the really good ones, the ones that make my dad yell at me. It makes me walk around rubbing my head like a huge bird shit on it. It makes me feel stupid, because more often than not it happens because I'm not paying enough attention to my surroundings. It turns me into a paranoid, ranting lunatic. It makes me yell "stop it!" in the air. It makes me cry and wince and flail around like a spastic boy whose lunch money has been stolen and then used to hire a goon to beat up his mother. And being rather tall, I get hit in the head...a lot."

"You are pretty tall for a fat guy. Does this story have a point?"

"Not really. I hit myself in the head today at the gym and it really, really hurt."

"Could you make one up, do you think?"

"What?"

"A point. To the story."

"Uh...never exercise. It can only lead to trouble."

"Well done. Have an Excedrin."