102 Degrees Of Hell.

What a week it was.

It started about 10 days ago, on Friday June 22, when my partner and I found out we had not won the Taza Chocolate account. An account we had poured our hearts into the previous three weeks. I think they told us we came in second place, but to be honest I didn't hear a word they said after the disappointing news. (More on Taza tomorrow.)

The weekend following quickly devolved, like a Precedent Shitgibbon news conference.

My wisdom tooth which had started aching while I was camping in the Sierras was now in full blown "Get Me Out Of This Skull" Mode. Thankfully, it waited until I was on my home turf and not while stuck in a nylon tent in BumFuck, California, where the nearest dentist is also the town's blacksmith, welder and meth cooker.

The entirety of the weekend was spent on the couch. Whining incessantly. And seriously abusing the opportunity to turn my wife into my own personal nursemaid. Which, for the record and because of of my preternaturally good health, I rarely do.

I also got an emergency dispensation of Vicoden from my dentist.

And quickly proceeded to abuse the dosage. If you've ever been afflicted with an angry, throbbing wisdom tooth cursed with a heaping helping of Siegel determination, you'd understand why waiting four hours between opioidal feeding times was simply out of the question.

On Monday we were off to see the oral surgeon. And by 2:37 PM, the monster molar that had been banging on the walls of his jail cell for the past two weeks, was out of my head.

This is when the real pain began.

That night, at home, before my recovery process could even get underway, I bent down to scoop up a bowl of dog food and tweaked my lower back. I didn't just tweak it. I twanked it. I twerked it. I twuncated it to the point of paralysis. I was in full Stephen Hawkins mode.

"Deb-or-rah, please bring me my pain go bye bye medicine."

As if that weren't enough, I also began to suffer from post-sedation chills. And sweats. Sweating, by the way, is something I do very well. That night my wife was awakened, not unlike the scene from the Godfather when the Hollywood producer finds himself in a pool of horseblood. Only in this case the sheets were drenched in me.

Ewwwwwww.

As if all that still weren't enough, I could not do any meaningful exercise. And if you know me at all you know I'm kind of addicted to my two a day routine of weight lifting and cardio. I had to abstain from alcohol. At least when my wife was around. She has all these crazy rules about not mixing alcohol with painkillers, pffft. And I ate very little. Very, very little. It's been like 7 days of Yom Kippur.

Nor could I vent on Facebook, having been blocked for three days for using the phrase White Trash.

The good news is that's all behind me.

And what doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And, it turns out svelter. My 36 waist cargo shorts are now feeling a little baggy.

WooHoo!