(Um . . . way before my time too. It’s a cute little 1943 song that still slinks around. This is the Spike Jones version; the first pre-spikatized bit is the straight way.  Ah, c’mon. You know who Spike Jones is.)

As I write this, my right index finger is doing the owie thing that says Mr. Mouse is no longer my friend. And I’m still on the sheeping computer.

I worry about stuff like this, particularly as I have had what has now been diagnosed as a bad flare of chondromalacia for almost two months now. I saw the orthopod this morning, who was quite reassuring as to the underwhelmingness of my arthritis–for the last week or two, I was carefully avoiding words like “cane” and “crippled” and “lap band surgery to lose weight to keep it off the knees that I can’t exercise on.”

Being hyperactive and easily bored, I really need to find activities that use other things–i.e., I use my hands and my eyes for pretty much everything I do or find interesting–just as pretty much everybody else does. Good luck with that, eh?