Ever since the transplant, I’m a different person. Like just now, I went into a Walgreens in Palo Alto to pick up a prescription, and I went up to the check-out clerk and she was this woman in her fifties, heavy, with bad hair, and when she turned I saw she had a Styx tattoo on her arm.

And I just looked at that tattoo and it just seemed like the saddest thing I’d ever seen and the next thing I know my eyes are filling up and then the tears are just rolling down my face. I guess it just seemed weird, like, at some point in this person’s life apparently this really awful band really meant something to her, like she thought they were profound, or meaningful, or something, or maybe they got her through some hard time in her life, so she went out and got this tattoo and now she’s stuck with it.

So is she proud of it? Does she still like Styx? Does she have styxworld.com bookmarked on her Internet Explorer browser (because, let’s face it, she’s gotta be a Windows user), so she can check the site all the time and keep track of when Styx is going to be playing near her? Or is she maybe embarrassed by her tattoo and she wishes she could get rid of it? But if so, why is she wearing a sleeveless shirt?

These are the questions that raced through my mind as I stood there, crying like an idiot, with her asking me, Are you okay mister? Can I help you?

The old Steve would have just laughed his ass off. Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve turned into a weepy old lady. Oh God. Now I’m starting to cry again. I’m sorry. I’ll check in later.