Hello little fishies.
I must apologize for my absence. And maybe for my last couple of entries. I've been sick, you see. The motivation just wasn't there while I wasn't well. But now I've got the words in me. They wiggle. It feels neat.
Moo hoo ha ha.
I have been reading entirely too many graphic novels. At first I really liked it, then I was worried that they were making me stupid, and now I think I've come full circle. I'm stupid and I like it.
I'm on crutches. There was a complication that in no way has given me a cool story. Mostly I get to look sad and say, in my best hangdog-defeated expression, "It's not a cool story. I had a cut on my foot. It got infected. That's it." Because people ask what happened to you when you crutch by them. They also ask what happened to you when you have a devilishly stylish medical grade blue stretchy thing on your foot instead of a cast. The stylish stretchy blue thing goes over the bandage. It keeps me clean. Pure. We wouldn't want to be unclean. Impure. IMPURE.
Crutches. Right. Still on those, after roughly a month's time. That's not changing any time soon. The cut was on the sole of the foot, see. And then the heel became crusty bits. Crusty bits are bad. There was a neat thing called a shunt in my arm. Well, I called it a shunt. Shunt, shunt, shunt, shunty-shunt, shunt. Try it. Fun.
Shunty-McShuntShunt was in my arm-bits for the express purpose of delivering antibiotic goodies from the nice nurse people. That was an interesting experience. I could feel the juices spreading out through my blood pipes. It was handy during the unseasonable ambient thermal energy, since the goodies had to be kept in the re-fridge-er-ate-TOR, right next the mustard and the leftover pork. No, not bacon. I've never, ever, ever, had leftover bacon. What is wrong with you? Okay, one time, but I had specifically cooked more than I needed so that there would be bacon later when I was drunk. Alcohol and furious, spattering grease are best left uncombined. Praise my foresight. PRAISE IT.
Back to the goodies. The goodies were chilled. I was supposed to let them warm up, but it was much nicer to shoot up some vein-centric A/C.
Wish me luck, fish sticks. I'm going to cram my headspace into the modern literary sensation known as Twilight. I do this to properly understand a pop-culture phenomenon, not because I am sympathetic to the struggle of one pampered middle-class girl to choose between necrophilia and bestiality. I am also not an adolescent human with ovaries. I distinctly lack ovaries.
See you soon.
