For the past week or two, Facebook has been pressuring me to post my year in review photo slideshow, under the headline of “It’s been a great year!” Because it’s always a fantastic year on Facebook! Yay! I took a peek at my slideshow, and it looked like a year in the life of a fake person I don’t know. Which is my own fault, since when I’m on Facebook I’m a strict follower of the “polite small talk only” rule, and I don’t exactly show my true self there.

This is what the year in review would look like for a real human being, instead of one created by the Facebook-bots:

January: Working lots of hours of overtime. This is going to be a continuing theme for the rest of the year. My profile picture for the year in review should be a pic of the cubicle wall I’ll spend most of my time staring at.

February: Relationship falls apart. Insert adorable video of screaming couple.

March: Don Lemon spends the entire month playing with a model airplane.

April: Great vacation at the coast. Rented a room right above a brewery. Insert hangover pictures.

May: Fuck! Did I really just turn a year older? More hangover pictures.

June: The weather outside is finally getting nice! Another picture of the beautiful view of my cubicle wall.

July: Burned my fingers on fireworks, and the cops came looking for the illegal explosives. This was actually a great month!

August: Hot and bored. Nothing interesting ever happens in August.

September: This is the month when I always volunteer for the local arts festival, in a futile attempt to feel like I’m more than just an office cubicle monkey.

October: Another Halloween, still no idea for a costume. Insert selfie in bulky, unflattering sweater.

November: Election night. WTF, America?

December: It’s holiday time! Insert picture of people in a mall killing each other.

So yeah, it’s been a year. And it appears another one has started. Don’t know yet if it will be “great!”, but for now, I’m wishing all of us a 2015 marked by the absence of pain.

Well, I could use this space to whine and cry about the midterm election results, or I could post something a little more…entertaining. Especially when it ties into my line of work.

Part of my job consists of investigating accidents and trying to find out how injuries happened (to see if there could be any liability involved). This means that I spend my day looking at countless ways in which people hurt themselves. Everything from skateboarding and snowboarding accidents…to those who injure themselves while attempting to dance or do yoga…those who fall into a hole in their backyard…or get bitten by a cat or spider, or the bat they find lying on their bedroom floor. Needless to say, my work makes me a bit paranoid about doing…anything, really.

And that’s how I can confirm that what Meetville.com is reporting is true–quite a few people hurt themselves while having sex.

Meetville–which is a dating site, but not an ISIS-sponsored one!–has published stats showing that one third of adults are injured every year while doing the wild thing, with an even kinkier 5% having to call in sick to work the next day. And 4 out of 10 have broken furniture or other household items in the process of making love. See? It’s much safer when you’re not getting any. I’m just sayin’.

They even provide a handy chart of the most dangerous places to have sex. They say it’s 10 places, but I only see 9. Perhaps they were too busy getting it on to count:

10dangerousspots

Ack! The sofa and the bedroom are so dangerous! Did I mention you can get ebola there, too?

I should add that in my workplace, when we receive information about *those* kinds of injuries, our clients don’t give us any details, and we don’t ask. I’ve seen a couple of hospital emergency room claims with a diagnosis of “foreign object in anus,” and I…I really don’t want to know. I figure that anyone in that situation would be too embarrassed to sue anybody else, anyway.

So there it is, a little silliness to brighten the mood for this dreary week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll retire to my dangerous bed and continue smarting from the spanking we got from the Republicans this Tuesday…ouch!

There has been a lot of talk lately about the study showing just how much Americans booze it up. The strongest reaction by far has been to the top 10% of drinkers who put away a whopping 74 drinks a week. There has been shock and disbelief over that figure.

But I’m not surprised by those people. Mind you, I wouldn’t be able to survive what they do–my body isn’t that strong and my liver is already unhappy. But I can understand what drives them and where they’re coming from.

What is shocking to me is that 60% of the population either doesn’t drink at all or only drinks less than one drink a week. Really? What is their secret? Or maybe, what is their problem? How do they get through their day without feeling that hurting or at least, that restless itch which makes you want to have a drink so you can drown it out? Is it that they’ve found other ways to pacify themselves, like too much food or too much TV? Are they that emotionally strong? Or are they already numb?

The sober people are a fucking mystery to me. I’m going to need a shot of brandy to wrap my mind around that one.

So this is what it’s like when your favorite city becomes a minefield, every place you go a reminder of what you’ve lost.  The park trails you used to hike.  The scones you would eat in the morning.  The police horses sneaking nibbles of grass through the fence, the cormorants over the cold river.  The streets which were white that last time you got snowed in together.

I will forever love my rainy little town, but right now every moment in it brings a tiny explosion of pain.  In time, I will be stronger again, and Portland will turn back from a minefield into a city.