A journal of questionable quality

Monday, July 24, 2006

Time dragging

belly button gazing
If it wasn't for the fact that I have the biggest ego of anyone I know, and several I don't, I would be starting to feel rather useless right now.

A person with one arm bound to their chest is not a useful one. I am able to report this due to the current damage - to me. I have managed to come to this conclusion after these last few weeks, most of which has been spent trying to find a comfortable position to sit/lie in.

They can't wrestle intruders (that'll be why the handgun is around - right or left hand - doesn't worry me).

They can't hang up the washing. (Never did manage to find the clothes line - why would I want to when there is a perfectly good dryer sitting in the laundry.)

They can't defuse bombs. (OK, I may not have tried that yet, but it doesn't look to be something that could be done with one hand.)

Engaging in sex is something that requires careful planning - spontaneity is now something from another language, probably Latin.

My car driving days are over for the time being. I spent $500.00 on the bloody thing the day before the bike drama and have yet to road test it. Seems to me I could still wheel the bugger about if I really needed to. I never was much for indicating anyway.

The day begins with a swab down of all the body parts that may need freshening up, and some do if you have just spent the night sleeping with a foam sling encasing your arm.

In here, the office, read all the news:Google, BBC, New York Times, even news.com sometimes, although it is the slowest loading site in the universe.

Satisfied that Israel is still in over it's head and Iran is still postulating like an old whore looking for business, we progress, awkwardly, to the email of the day.

That done the rest of the day can be devoted to annoying Yvonne, feeling sorry for myself, eating painkillers, and drinking coffee.

Reverse the order for the evening, and Yvonne showers me, gets some clothes on me and sits me down for a one handed dinner. Lucky that my dinner almost always consists of vegetables, mashed, mixed, and ready to spoon into mouth.

More painkillers - even if I don't need them - and the day is gone.

Then we do it all over again. And again. And again until, in a month I get to see the surgeon again, to prove I haven't been doing handstands or skydiving. What happens after that I have no idea. At all.

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