I have lovely purple splotches all over my skin. I've been taking pictures for posterity, since one of them seems to be developing into the shape of the Virgin Mary. Well, the Virgin Mary as envisioned by Mr. Potato Head. But it's still a cool bruise. And on second thought, those pictures are mostly for me. They're in a place that posterity doesn't need to see.
I'm glad to say, I'm taking my injuries like a champion, and not whining incessantly. It does suck that the cold packs are useless, though. I need to invest in a topical numbing gel or something. One of the hidden downsides to cryogenesis.
The ringing in my ears has changed pitch. Not sure what that means. I've been tinkering with my sister's electric keyboard, and if I could actually tell the keys apart, I'd know exactly which note was playing constantly in my head. As it is, it's the third highest black key. Very annoying.
Firecracker got stalked by some intrepid reporter, who managed to capture a few awkward moments on camera before he blasted away. It's hard to avoid the news clips, though I really don't want to see his face anymore. There's a betting pool on how long before he gets unmasked. I find that kind of speculation really morbid, but I'm guessing not long. He doesn't have the brains or the cunning to keep a secret like that. He's just some jerk with flamethrower fists. Of course, if anybody on the beach got a good look at him, he'd be busted even quicker. I didn't see his face, and I'm not sharing any other identifying details. Yuck.
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