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Raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling. It's hard to imagine Houston's own B. J. Thomas could have envisioned such a cold and miserable day in Houston — and that's making no mention of the weather.

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YOU THINK YOU know how a shot is going to feel. At this point in life, I have had innumerable shots —the injection kind, not the concentrated dazzle of dizziness that precedes a morning spent sending apologetic text messages. Allergy shots, flu shots, immunizations — these are not foreign to me. And yet, there I found myself, a grown man, jumping back, yelping in pain.

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YOU EVER JUST want to scream? Like, as loudly as you can, to absolutely no one in particular? Not a shout or a holler. I am talking about a primal yell that originates in the depths of your soul and spews forth with such force it shakes the tops of the trees and rattles the glass of surrounding buildings and changes ever-so-slightly the actual rotation of the planet. No? Just me?

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