Owie. And ha ha, dude.
This shiner is different from other shiners in that my head is hurty too. So it wasn't a good idea for me to train tonight, something I figured out when I face planted into the mat on the hurty side. Back to the ice pack (or the sorbet). Dammit.
In more humorous news, one of my teammates hemmed and hawed for a bit before asking me if I happen to like "smoking the herb." I asked him why, and said no, that most of that kind of behavior is behind me (I say "most," because I've learned you should never say never). He said that sometimes my gis smell like pot. I figured out that it must be the hipsters who live in my apartment building; I frequently leave my place to get a big noseful of pot smoke in the hallway. This apartment was only ever supposed to be temporary, and yet I've been living there, month-to-month, for a year. I'm pretty sure most of the other tenants are students at nearby Whittier College. The tenants I've seen are pretty hipsterish (refer to my post on hipsters for a more detailed description), and I swear that sometimes I'll open the washing machines in the laundry room to find load after load of all-black clothing and linens. That's a pretty big clue.
But anyway, somehow the smell of pot seems to be permeating my clothing. It's certainly not me--and I'm not just saying that because my parents are reading this.