I’ve been whining about how my shoulder hurts since last summer, last week the good folks at Kaiser were kind enough to let a Very Tall Man conduct an MRI on my shoulder. It was kind of fun and interesting for the first few minutes, but like a Mel Gibson movie just went on too long.

I got the big call from my doctors office yesterday, after spending the last week pouring over electronically created pictures of my shoulders inner workings (which is not the kind of working that is for suckers), the good doctor had decided that my shoulder was fine! This would be excellent news, if it didn’t mean I was crazy.

Apparently I have devoted a substantial portion of the last eight months complaining about something that doesn’t exist. I thought the waves a half block a way were taunting me and my shoulder, unable to go out on my neglected surfboard. Turns out it was my own crazy brain, convincing me to stay out of the ocean for most of the summer, out of the tropical water during my visit to the North Shore in November. My own cabeza laughing as I popped IB Profen like a late 90’s Brett Favre downing valium, until my stomach began it’s violent protests.

All of that for an injury that, according to my good doctor, doesn’t exist. From here out the pain in my shoulder will be known as Tyler Durden.