












I've been wearing a wrist brace at work. When a fellow programmer sees it for the first time I simply say, "It's my mouse hand," and they understand. It's a repetitive stress injury, due to years of semi-bad posture at my desk job.
A few days ago, Lightyear saw me wearing the brace. Lightyear is an older fellow, and he has no volume control. He immediately pointed and shouted, "JEFF! What'd you do?!? Are you OK?!?"


The cookies were pretty big. "One has some kind of cinnamon apple sprinkles on top," explained The Golfer, "And the other is nuts."













I picked up a pair of these rotating push-up handle thingers, because I hate my wrists. Stupid wrists. They deserve what's about to happen to them. |
Rumor has it that if I'm diligent with them, that in about 5 weeks I'll look like the guy in the picture over there. But probably with more blood and crying. |
Once I get the hang of it, the logical next step is to incorporate them into a dance routine. I imagine it won't be long before Cirque Du Soleil comes calling.
I decided to make a sign. I bought a blank "garage sale" sign and traced out some block letters and a simple design.