For what seems like months now I’ve had low-level pain in my right elbow and upper forearm.

While at Penguicon I discovered that it was hurting a LOT — so much, in fact, that I deigned to allow others to assist me with my luggage (I carried what I could in my left hand only) and shot left-handed at Geeks with Guns.

Eric S Raymond heard me griping about it and gave it a quick palpitation. He pronounced “tendonitis” as the diagnosis, and prescribed lots of ibuprofen and some heat. Indeed, that seemed to work well.

This week I scratched out a week of strips, but it took a long time (three work-days rather than the usual 1.5) because my arm kept getting tired quickly.

Today I painted a miniature. When I lowered my arms after finishing, my right elbow said “I’ve been quiet up until now, but since I see that you’re done I’m going to hurt so much that you are going to become physically and mentally exhausted. Ready? OW!” And sure enough, within minutes I was drained. I took some ibuprofen, but as anti-inflammatories go it was too little, too late (read “you shouldn’t take that much, and you should take it sooner.”)

I suppose I could stop working for a couple of weeks — I’ve got the buffer for it, certainly — but I don’t want to. Work is what I DO. If I’m not working I’m BORED, and boredom sucks. So I’m going to be more religious about taking the ibuprofen BEFORE work, lubing up with Icy-Hot, and maybe (just MAYBE) compensating by doing all of my erasing left-handed.

I may also try to find a way to work the word “tendonuckingfitis” into casual conversation, but only when I’m out of ibuprofen.

I’ve been reporting on my Penguicon 5.0 experience starting starting here at Blogunder Schlock (four posts so far). At least one more will come. I’m too lazy to mirror it, but I’m sure that with an RSS feed (got one!) some bright boy could set up an LJ feed of some sort.

Lots to write about. I still have to blog Sunday’s events, including the part where I nearly passed out from sleep deprivation at Sal’s place during the barbecue. Fortunately, I played WITH the fire rather than IN the fire.

My 11-year-old daughter (going on 12 in three weeks here) is in a play at school. Sandra dressed her in the requisite dress, cloak, and make-up, and suddenly my baby girl looked 16 years old. And she’s a pretty stunning 16, at that.

I’ve joked in the past about how I’m going to have to beat potential suitors away with a stick.

I am going to need a bigger stick.

When I was 18 years old my mother was killed by a drunk driver. She died at the scene. The drunk died en route to the hospital.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he had been drinking. I think I remember that he was from Kentucky, but I’m not sure. See, he was dead, so I was denied a living face to put on my hatred and anger.

Looking back I can see that the anger was short-lived. I can also see that this was a very good thing.

I have seen people tear their lives apart looking for vengeance, justice, or closure. Anger is a slow poison. A lot all at once can make you sick, but you can recover. A steady dose, every day, year in and year out? That’s deadly.

It is my hope and prayer for the bereaved, for the families of the victims at Virginia Tech, that the fact that the gunman took his own life will be a blessing in theirs. I hope they can pass swiftly through the rage, before it can permanently scar them. I pray for them in their grief, that they may find solace and peace. I pray for their lost loved ones, that they may find peace in the next life. But mostly I pray for the angry today, that they may recover from that anger.