Little Sore Spot

Remember the song The Police did where Sting sings about a "little black spot on the sun today?" It's probably my favorite Police song because I can't help but think it has some deep meaning that I'm just not quite smart enough to grasp, though the punk remake of "Message In A Bottle" comes close.

But never mind. It turns out that there's a little sore spot on my head today... It's the same old thing as yesterday...

As I was getting dressed this morning, my sock fell out of my nerveless, pitchfork-like hands. I bent down to snatch it up and thumped my head on the bedpost, foresquare, right on my left eyebrow, hard enough I saw protons and quarks and other shit floating around the room for a while. Now I feel like an apple with a mushy spot and I worry that soon I'll spoil the whole barrel.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

I've been writing fiction since I was roughly nine years old, and certainly thinking fiction long before that (I'm sure that what looked like childish play with Major Matt Mason toys was in fact an attempt to plot a killer SF masterpiece, but alas my seven year old brain just couldn't handle the pressure). And I've almost always, except when forced on pain of death, written in first person. I did this, I did that, they did this-or-that to me. But lately I find that I've started to slip into third person, which is sort of like waking up on a nice Saturday morning and realizing that one has been left-handed all along and just didn't notice it. Unanswered, however, is the question of whether it's a positive development or not.

But holy cow! How did that happen? Romanis eunt domus!