A Mouse in the House

 I need a mouse.  If not, I won't be able to write for hours on end.  Then I'll never finish my current project.  "Maybe you have attention deficit."  I do NOT have attention defi-- Care for some coffee?  Look, I need a mouse. No, not as a writing partner-- I've tried those already.  I need the kind of mouse that'll help out my wrist.  See, if I type too long without the help of the peripheral device, my wrist gets overworked on the laptop.  It gets stiff, exhausted, if you will (if you will WHAT?!)... Next thing you know, I'll find myself in an Emergency Room.  "My wrist has a boo-boo, Doc." I don't have the time, nor the stomach, to end up in ER (Why's it so depressing in there?).  "My wrist is killing me!  Somebody help me!"  Not only will my writing be affected, so will my shooting stroke.  See, I figure to be in one of those celebrity basketball games any day now (you don't actually have to be a celebrity, do you?).  "You want me to play?-- I have a sore wrist!"  If I'm less than 110%, I don't play well.  I'm used to having a limp wrist, er, flexible wrist. (For my jumpshot.)  That's it, I'm going to buy a mouse... Wait a minute, what if they just mopped the floors at the local store?  "Slippery when wet."  Great, all I need is to break my femur.  That's a really long bone.  In the leg.  The right leg.  And the left.