Well, I’ve done it again.
I’m a fucking klutz, and I’ve finally gone and very badly hurt a very important part of me that gets a lot of action.
My ankle, you sick sickos.
The ankle on the foot that I dropped the 20 matresses?
Why, NO! Why would I only want to hobble on ONE foot?
Well, as luck would have it, and as I mentioned before, the matress foot (ol’ righty) didn’t hurt so much, because I hit the top of it, and as my sexpot barely-legal assistant Joey so profoundly put it, I only walk on the bottom, so for the past week, I have been just fine, all-the-while able to show an awesome-looking bruise to all who wish to see (at a camp for children, that would be everyone.)
But no, since I am RETARDED and cannot avoid good-natured tomfoolery, I went and twisted my other ankle, ol’ lefty JUST for the fun of it.
You see, for the sexually-frustrated, heterosexual, yet shy tomboys out there, beating people up is a form of flirtation. Therefore, I basically go around punching everything in my path.
Apparently, it went too far, because during the strike of set, my barely-legal techie-bitch Peter and I were innocently striking drops, when something struck my fancy, and I started, well, striking HIM.
Some people do not like to be struck, or else they like to up the ante, and at this point I would like to interject that Peter is the rare form of nerd who, in one minute can argue whether specific foods would appear on the ship from Deep Space Nine, and in another minute shoot a brilliant free-throw and lift up two or three full-sized adults.
I’ve seen it happen.
To say that Peter is ripped is like saying Cake is Good.
I cannot run faster than Peter when I’m facing forwards.
That sentence will only seem strange for a few more.
Whilst we were folding drops, for whatever reason, I decided to punch him, and he grabbed my hands and proceeded to run towards me at full speed.
Meaning, of course, that I was running BACKWARDS at PETER’S full speed.
Well, at some point REALITY and LOGIC came into play, and my left ankle said “You know what? You silly legs keep on going, I’ma stay over here for a bit.”
I fell to the ground, Peter flew over me and went rolling down the stairs behind me, and then, feeling bad, came back to help me to my feet.
This was not a good thing.
When I stood up, the world got kinda wiggly, and I announced that I suddenly really liked sitting on the ground, and commensed doing so for many minutes.
So there’s my story.
I fucking tripped.
And, being the stubborn tomboy that I am, for the past two days, I have announced, both in my head and aloud, that I’m not a fucking pussy, and I can walk on it just fine, and if I can walk on it, it’s not broken, and since I’m not a pussy, I’m just fine, and OH, MY GOD, no, that was nothing, just ran over a little speed bump, and my ankle shifted, but NOTHING is wrong.
The color that it is now turning, and the fact that I just shifted my leg in my chair here at work in my silent cubicle and exclaimed a yelp of pain to the unsuspecting people around me who now have express proof that I am insane, perhaps it’s time for me to visit the hospital.
I will instruct my mom to bring a camera so that I can show you all the fun colors an ankle can turn, and what it would look like if, say, four mice were trapped inside of it, sleeping.
My next entry will be all about camp, so don’t you worry.
OH, GOD what was that…just my jeans falling over my ankle, nothing to see here, people, move along.
Well, I’ve done it again.