The New Speed of Progress

I'm working on a feature for the Metro Times this weekend. It's my first for the paper so I'm trying my best to not make this piece suck. It's a story about a local band, and the band is going to be on the cover. Seeing as I've never written anything beyond an album review for them, this seems like an inordinate amount of faith in my abilities on their part. All I can hope is that, when all is said and done, I'm not known as that guy Dan Suck who turned in the 1,200-word bowl of suck soup.

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My eye is starting to open, hesitantly like a shy little flower bud. I just want to say to it, "It's okay little fella. Come out and play! Nobody's going to hurt you." But it's on its own slow schedule. Who knew that healing could take so long? I thought medicine had, generally speaking, gone microwave. I'm so used to 24-hour flus and stories of 5-minute laser eye surgeries, the fact that my eye is only healing a little bit every day is driving me batty.

Thankfully Kirst is here in town nursing my ass. And how's this for a sense of accomplishment. I have, literally, one person in the world that I hope to impress: her. But then I look in the mirror and see a 31-year-old man ravaged by illness - pale, thin, sickly, and all-together Tiny Tim-ian in appearance, complete with fingerless gloves, dark circles under my eyes and rats nibbling at my coattails. And still, Kirsten looks at me like I'm George Clooney, grins, and keeps trying to make out with me. To which I say: Blam! Mission Accomplished.