Sunday, August 7, 2011

open letter to the ones who make me laugh

So I had an accident last night.  I went to help someone move something heavy.  Something enormously heavy.  With no story, I'll just say this enormously heavy thing landed on my left foot.  Stars, searing heat, sharp, deep pain.  Look down, blood, blury, don't want to cry, but seriously want to cry.  I stay committed to moving this heavy, goddamedmutherfuckingpieceofshituseless THING and hobble my way back into the house (and out of the pouring rain) where I call to the woman of the house as discretely as possible and ask for a first aid kit.  First aid is administered, and I decide, it's not that bad.  There is little swelling, no immediate bruising, and the pain, after icing, has subsided.
Fast forward to today....FUUUUUCCCCCKKQQQQQUUUEE!  This is not good.  I have what looks and feels like a club foot and I'm trying to keep from scowling so as not to increase the speed in which the deep lines of age divide my face.  I've got a lot on my mind - but that is another letter for a different day - and I'm starting to feel like an old man.  More specifically, Jeff Bridges in any one of his last three films.  As many of you know, I'm a bit of an amateur when it comes to drinking.  But I'm distracted, angry, anxious, and in a ton of pain that is not letting up.  I'm trying to focus and just go to bed early, but I can't do that, because that would be a rational thing to do.  So I'm limping and sliding my lame club-of-a-foot around the house and it's straight scotch.  I'm carrying my glass around with me and taking heavy sips imagining that this will numb the pain.  I catch myself doing this as I walk past a mirror (scowling face, and lame hobble and all) and I realize how ridiculous I am, so I laugh, out loud, at myself; and I instantly feel better.

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