So, in an hour i get to go home and undergo some sort of V.I.P. torture therapy, written out in bubble handwriting by my physical therapist, who when he was charged with simply FMFUB (fixing my fucked up back) I liked, and now have decided: hey big blonde swimmer PT guy, why do you want to make me cry? I cannot believe I have to go spend an hour of my life alternating between boiling buckets of lava hot water and ice slush just to get swelling down (why is it still swelling 3 weeks later? I DON'T KNOW. Because i am old and injuries don't heal fast anymore? Because I might not have any ligaments left? Because I'm a giant whiny baby who wants to wear shoes to work again, so she doesn't have to bear the judgemental under-the-breath-on-the-sidewalk wrath of certain K St lawresses [lawtrixes?]-n-interns, pieces of crap in their d'orsay heels* and pencil skirts, who look at my flip-slops and limp with some sort of mega-disdain? listen, Project Bitchway: My foot's broken. from kicking somone's ass when they made a comment about "how ugly flip-flops are and esp. in October OMG." Kindly Fuck. Off. I'm hurt, and i hate you) on the top of my foot. I could be somewhere doing something important tonight, like drinking. A lot. At a bar. Or walking the dog, which I haven't done in a month now and I'm pretty certain that fact alone is leading to imminent divorce, since the dog's had runny craps for 3 nights straight. Probably from eating trash. That I probably left out.
Also, my calf is all crampy and fucked up from overcompensating and standing for hours at concerts. Which maybe I shouldnt do anymore. (CRIES)
Have I mentioned that in about a month, I'm off to watch my one of my closest friends run a marathon and I'm gonna be the fat one taking taxis to meet up with her at certain milemarkers? Because, yes. Maybe I'll use a cane. I'm like that one lady doctor who used to be on ER, except not a doctor.
Here's the lesson in all of this: don't sprain your ankle. It sounds like the fucking wussiest injury ever, right? Even to me, I type it and then make fun of myself. But then here we are, aren't we.
* i only know this word from catalogs. thank you j. crew, always getting mailed to my house even though i havent bought anything but bridesmaid dresses from you since the late 90s.