That's not my bleeding nipple. Although I know how that feels.
IT was less of the first, more of the second, and none of the third.
That roughly described my situation a few weeks ago, moments after I finished my Sunday run at the Philippines’ most popular academic oval.
This was because both my nipples had bled, a condition I would later discover as—thanks to Wikipedia (and yes, I’ll make that donation soon, Jim)—nipple rupture. [See: Nipple rupture]
HALF an hour before the New Year, I was high and dry, which was contrary to tradition and my temperament.
The past ten or more New Year’s Eves saw me low and mellow, usually nursing a chilly amber beverage enjoyed in the company of kindred spirits.
But this year was different.
TWO thousand eleven is the same as 2010 and the year before that.
That’s as far as the number of books I’ve read is concerned.
For the past three years, I’ve read 28 books annually, failing to meet my goal of finishing 30 books a year. My record year still is 2008, when I read 30++ books, including comics, short novels, and a New Yorker issue cover to cover.
