I've been dragging my busted back to Andre more and more often, and I think his program is helping. Tonight he threw me up against the wall of his office, crossed my arms in front of me, and tried to push my shoulders up through the sheetrock.

Damn, that hit the spot!

I keep meaning to tell him about the time I was lying on the floor of Frylock's bedroom back on Staten Island. He walked in and decided to walk across me. He put his foot on my back and stepped -- creating a series of crunches that sounded like a roomful of people crumpling polystyrene coffee cups.

Tonight he laid me back on a special table: half of it was a waterbed. And not just any waterbed -- he flipped the switch and a series of internal hot-water-jets pounded my back. Wiggy. I turned face down on it and screamed "Turn it up full blast!" Then I realized the other patients in the room were probably trying to take their treatment seriously.

I got home, had a slice of pizze, and drank a can of club soda that's been in the refrigerator since Marlena was here in November. How did it last that long?