Notes from the Infirmary
It must be that, in medical practice, the phrase "I really don't think the bone is broken" is really a secret code for "come back tomorrow so we can encase you in plaster." Yessir -- my little rendezvous with the pavement successfully fractured my carpal scaphoid ("chunk-o-wrist" in layman's terms), which is apparently one of the slowest-healing bones in the body. Verdict: I'm going to be wearing a cast for the next three months. I really wish that was a hyperbole.
All ye Denveroos, therefore, are required to find me, and come well-equipt with Sharpies. My arm is currently facing a severe lack of grafitti, and this will NOT be tolerated.
Watch me try to be positive:
1) It's going to force me to become left-handed, which I've always vaguely had a notion I wanted to do (though there is going to be a distinct problem when I have to take my calculus midterm on Wednesday...maybe can I explain to my grader, "Those may only look like scribbles, but really they're all right answers. Yes, all. Cripples don't lie.")
2) I get to rest assured in the knowledge that if anyone desires to do battle with me, I could probably take out their whole face with a single blow from my club-arm. And if the impact also shatters all the other bones in my arm -- well, it's a small price to pay for the smiting of one's foes.
3) I still have my upper arm. I used to think that if I ever lost a hand, I might as well lose the whole arm too, what am I going to do with all that excess limb? But no -- my arm is what holds bottles of Jones Soda steady while my left hand unscrews the top. This is extremely necessary to my well-being.
But, all in all, it comes down to this. *Ahem*
Dear Universe,
As you certainly must know, the duration of three months will put us in mid-February, 2007. I am wholly aware that you are in possession of a rather sadistic sense of humor, the hilarity of which I shall not question here. However, I have also been informed that you are bound by a number of a priori natural laws, over which Murphy and all your other prophets have no precedence. In that, I must direct you to several of the compromises we have already reached concerning that auspicious yet ever-more-slowly approaching season. And on those grounds, I demand that you free me from this concrete shell no later than February 22, 2007, being my nineteenth birthday. Should you refuse to comply, I swear to you on the soul of all my dead relatives -- even the ones who aren't feeling so good -- that I will not rest until I have rid humanity of this favorite tyrant of yours, Gravity. Consider yourself warned.
Respectfully yours, Inga E.
All ye Denveroos, therefore, are required to find me, and come well-equipt with Sharpies. My arm is currently facing a severe lack of grafitti, and this will NOT be tolerated.
Watch me try to be positive:
1) It's going to force me to become left-handed, which I've always vaguely had a notion I wanted to do (though there is going to be a distinct problem when I have to take my calculus midterm on Wednesday...maybe can I explain to my grader, "Those may only look like scribbles, but really they're all right answers. Yes, all. Cripples don't lie.")
2) I get to rest assured in the knowledge that if anyone desires to do battle with me, I could probably take out their whole face with a single blow from my club-arm. And if the impact also shatters all the other bones in my arm -- well, it's a small price to pay for the smiting of one's foes.
3) I still have my upper arm. I used to think that if I ever lost a hand, I might as well lose the whole arm too, what am I going to do with all that excess limb? But no -- my arm is what holds bottles of Jones Soda steady while my left hand unscrews the top. This is extremely necessary to my well-being.
But, all in all, it comes down to this. *Ahem*
Dear Universe,
As you certainly must know, the duration of three months will put us in mid-February, 2007. I am wholly aware that you are in possession of a rather sadistic sense of humor, the hilarity of which I shall not question here. However, I have also been informed that you are bound by a number of a priori natural laws, over which Murphy and all your other prophets have no precedence. In that, I must direct you to several of the compromises we have already reached concerning that auspicious yet ever-more-slowly approaching season. And on those grounds, I demand that you free me from this concrete shell no later than February 22, 2007, being my nineteenth birthday. Should you refuse to comply, I swear to you on the soul of all my dead relatives -- even the ones who aren't feeling so good -- that I will not rest until I have rid humanity of this favorite tyrant of yours, Gravity. Consider yourself warned.
Respectfully yours, Inga E.