Unwelcome visitor is a real pain
As a writer, I often stare into oblivion, hoping that some idea comes flying out of the blue, penetrates my mind and speaks: “This is it! The Jackpot! You’re really gonna knock ‘em dead with this one!” Recently, in such a self-induced stupor, I chanced to look down at my hand and was surprised to see my left forefinger (the one I use when arguing with an imaginary friend) had morphed into some kind of gnarly, lumpy, blunt claw, all swollen at the top joint. Meanwhile, my right pinky, having ballooned in the middle, looks like an unhappy jumbo shrimp trying to straighten itself ...
