As I hobble to my makeshift workstation at the kitchen table with a pan of Stove Top in one hand and a shredded facial tissue in the other, I ask myself:
Self, am I depressed?
I mean, a broken fibula can mean many things to many people, as I have learned on mybrokenleg.com, but the bullshit that you go through on the day-to-day while cooped up in your house can feel slightly oppressive at times. When the only audience you have for your outbursts are a overly-hyper dog and a lazy motherfucker of a cat, the feedback one gets is somewhat lacking. Between the blank stares of the cat and the constant gnawing of the dog on his magical rawhide bone, far too busy to look up, I’m not sure they even know I’m here.
Oh, I’m working. This working-from-home thing is a blessing and a curse. Besides that, who only takes off one day for a broken leg? Me, that’s who. Who is also severely lacking in judgement? OK, don’t answer that. I’ve been stuck in an uncomfortable stabilizing boot for 3 long weeks and if I’m lucky, I’ll get out of it next week.
Week 1: I was totally putting on makeup and dressing in real-ish clothes every day.
Week 2: Attempting and failing at looking normal, I instead just stayed angry at my laptop.
Week 3: Complete Decline of all Civilization.
And I guess that’s what really makes being broken, in its own way, a little beautiful and somewhat bittersweet. I may be eating a pan of Stove Top for lunch, but trust me, you’re sleeping better than I am. Plus 1 for Stove Top, minus 1 for no sleep. I may not be able to outrun you for your candy, you don’t have Norco. Minus 1 for being slower than a 90-year old, plus 1 for drugs. I may be a completely miserable bitch 99.9% of the time at present, but I get to be that way in a robe at 2pm while drinking IF I WANTED TO. Minus 1 for miserable bi-…
wait, there’s no minus there.