You know, if someone were to tell me that I would be permanently disabled for the rest of my life I would swallow the big pill and get on with it.
But I haven’t. I still lie and wait until my next appointment with the bone fucker on 4/20. Funny huh? Four-fucking-twenty. The same fucking number as my safety deposit box at the bank and a holiday celebrated by stoners the world over.
Three more weeks before I find out my sentence with the sadistic PT personnel and the outlook on my recovery. Am I angry? No. I’m fucking livid. And yes, I am whining about it. I know there are people out there who are in worse shape than I, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m sure they’ve bitched and moaned their share too.
Am I swearing a lot in this blog? Yeah, I fucking know Einstein.
Just because I am in the mood to vent and blow off some steam before I blow a gasket; here is some shit that I can no longer do/or have foregone until further notice. Primarily because the slum lord of my city neglects to keep the walkways and parking lots safe during the winter months.
Numero Uno: I can’t fucking drive. I have partly done this to myself because I’m a snotty bitch about only driving cars with manual transmissions. Therefore, I ride the bus. And that comes with its own set of problems including ass holes who can’t keep their hands off my fucking orthopedic device; otherwise known in the medical community as a Rolleraid.
Two: It takes me at least an hour to shower and primp to look decent enough to leave my apartment where it used to only take half the time. It takes 15 minutes alone to put a fucking pair of pants on. I was lucky or unlucky depending on how you view the situation that I was given a removable boot cast. But I still have to wrap the fucker in trash bags order to shower. Take the boot cast off and then put the boot cast back on after the left leg has been donned with pants. It comes with an impressive set of 6 Velcro straps and only comes in black which has proven to be a wardrobe challenge when choosing footwear…
Three: The fucking nicknames. The one I hate the most is ‘Scooter Girl’. It sounds like a goddamn Marvel Comic Book hero. Why don’t you dress me in a fucking cape and send me out on the streets with my one good leg to be a vigilante and fight crime all over the city of Madison..... Gimp isn’t my favorite either.
Four: Golf league, pool league, a second degree, and a Vargas style pin-up photo shoot that I had to cancel. Sure I guess I could still do the photo shoot if you hide the atrophied chicken leg. Although there are probably some circles out there who like weird shit like that. At least I’ll get my tuition back from the university…
So now I fucking wait. I won’t be happy if I hear news that I still have to ride my scooter into the sunset for another six months. We’ll see. I’m no longer idealistic about the situation; I was originally told six weeks. I hope that this will be the last of the blogs about my fucking broken leg… I’m sick of being consumed by a medical condition that hampers my fabulousity.
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