Thursday meant going for a little conference and then off to enjoy an activity together with my dear, dreading colleagues. The conference was quite good. Working together in a stream-lined fashion is sweet.

Well, after the conference this awaited us: the activity was riding go-carts. I actually would rule at this, as with every game I ever play. As you will soon see.

This is shot at lunch-time, walking through Hammarby Sjöstad, where it all went down. Evidently, Stockholm is finally transforming into the butterfly which is Summer. Of course, this being Stockholm, I won't put my proverbial eggs into one bleeding basket and say that we're actually entered the summer season until we have 14 days without snow (no pun intended).

Lifestyles of the rich and Swedish.

The place where the go-carting went down. Note the limo for that extended penile status.

Oh yes. There were more pillars than meters of asphalt on that Lap of Doom, I tell you what. Our first session on the track lasted for 7 minutes of madness. Then a break, then 7 more minutes. Then a Grand Prix where it all ended after 12 laps. So, the first time around there were some power-hungry bitches all lined-up to win. Of course, I did my usual thing: bragged hellaciously on how great I was and how I was going to own every single one of them and make them all my slaves for the rest of time and beyond, just like Jeffrey Dahmer. I also added that I was known to brag a lot before the event only to suck infinitely during and then end up last after the fact.

But I didn't!

One guy smashed his little car into a pile of tires before I rolled in last, so I was the penultimate; that guy's nick-name was Tiny Dancer though, so he was alright anyway.

Before we went out onto the court we had to sign papers saying that the company that owned the carts and the track wouldn't be responsible for any bodily harm and that we had to pay for any car damages. I wrote somebody else's name on a piece of paper and then went out to harm people.

So, what really happened? Yours truly smashed into a pile of tires which made my ribcage go KRAKK on the left-hand side, and following that it was all trying not to sniff death in the face any further.

I somehow finished the race, found out that I had trouble with fully breathing in and carried on, but not before having yakked about my sad, sad, emo state. So the second time around I managed to really lunge into a few more tires and the same very spot that I just smashed into, my body went KRAKK again but a little bit louder this time and after that I just wanted to not lie in a fetal position as that would hurt even more, but I soldiered on. Beefcake!

Third rush - the Grand Prix. A colleague rammed me, not because of ill will but because I was driving like a christian ((A John Wesley Coleman III reference.))! So, the third time around and I almost felt obliged to abort mission but didn't. Not because of pride or anything like that. Just plain old fun: driving around like that was just too much fun to stop! I just wished for weapons or an OK to jump into another person's moving vehicle in order to win.

Having stepped out from the engine-strapped square that was the go-cart, I felt truly mangled. And safe in the knowledge that I had my own little unique record:

That's RIGHT! At 8th place (of 9 I was the only racer whose best lap time was higher than 40 seconds. So there) I ruled! Well, I ruled 8th place!

After the race and the awards ceremony where medals were handed out to those deserving, we went to a little place called Hemma hos Kaj, which was quite homely but not the best chow-place for vegetarians. I was served a half-assed pasta (as per usual where uninspired chefs dwell (rather than work)) but beer was really nice at that point as a sedative. By Bog.

We had fun. It was great to get to know the people that surround you as we tend to work all day long (gasp). I mean, we usually laugh and have fun, but it's professional business. At the restaurant, though, it was really great to laugh about subjects varying from Mel Gibson, whether or not the latest Sherlock Holmes-installment by Guy Richie was clap or pap, to talk of the immense importance of cake and pondering why everybody from Gothenburg are secretly named "Glenn" when in Stockholm.

Riding homewards, at Gullmarsplan. This was at 21:30, and I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Brilliant. Finally, you weather! Finally!

Upon coming home, X and I saw a bit of the second semifinal of the Eurovision Song Contest, which was 99% laughs, 0.5% talent and 0.5% surprise (both good and bad), as is tradition. It'll probably be fun to see the finale!

This look was given to me the day after, when Blixa instructed me that I'd not been able to breathe properly during the evening and night. I simply had to call the local doctor's - i.e. Din Vårdcentral Bagarmossen - and go down to let them have a look.

Sadly, the doctor was to a 50-75% extent a mess. No empathy, to paraphrase Super Furry Animals:

"Hello. Sit. What is wrong?"

Well, your attitude. I didn't say that.

She felt my ribs and couldn't find anything wrong. I then clarified - which I had actually done when I called the doctor's a couple of hours earlier - that I'd been go-carting and careened into some tire-stacks.

"Oh, if I would have known that first that would have made a difference!" I was told.

What the fuck. She actually said this in a teacher's matter-of-factly tone while looking at me as though I were a child who'd missed out on its homework.

"Well, isn't that in the notes of what I reported when calling in this morning?"

She looked. It was.

She then told me that I should eat pain-killers, I told her her that my pains were too difficult for me to concentrate and that the ones she recommended were already tried by me; she then wrote a prescription for Tramadol and hell yeah, that made some difference... later on.

Anyway, she didn't say much more. I had to ask the remaining questions, e.g. "For how long should I be eating these?" and "Can I do physical exercise at all during the time I've got this pain?". All the while she looked at me as though I had painted a swastika in my forehead using excrement ((Perhaps not even my own excrement.)).

I then went to the local pharmacy where I was informed of one thing the doctor had said which was just wrong when it comes to matching pain-killers, clued-in about a lot of other stuff concerning the medicines I could take and the pharmacist was just generally very helpful, kind and informative. I told her this and she looked really glad, which was nice.

This is how Blixa reacted when I told her of the doctor:

Anyway, I had two Tramadol as recommended by the pharmacist, and off to never-never land I went. That shit is potent! I felt a bit drunk, wobbly, definitely off my concentration and off the world for a bit there, yeah. It actually helped to chase the pain away. For a while. And yes, it was in the beginning of The Suffering; now I've learned to feel when the stabbing pains trigger, so I just avoid that by walking like Igor ((Doctor Frankenstein's assistant, if I'm not mistaken.)) and moaning a lot - not much of a difference from my regular routine, granted.

Here's to getting back into the world!