salinger has a vault full of stories..
11 days out from the acl surgery and boy do I feel... anti-social. Not entirely depressed, and not entirely unexpected, but I guess I did a decent job of planning.
I cut things off with the girl I was talking to, since I don't think she deserves the bullshit that is me in this state of mind. Not that it was going to last forever, anyway. A goal for when I finally recover is to find a girl that I actually want to hang out with when I'm sober. Good luck, me.
I think I did a good job of not making it a highly-publicized bit of info that I was going under the knife, except for maybe a few responses on facebook, but that's better than a lame ass "wish me luck" type of post. The last thing I want is a bunch of well-wishing friends asking me if everything is okay. Yes, I'm fine. Talk to me when I can run and dance again. I still, of course, appreciate the good intent.
I even set up all the people who I would copy notes from beforehand, so I just had to deal with a quick conversation at the photocopy, and then I could get back to business: laying in bed on a continuous passive motion machine for six hours a day, while I itch like a fucking junkie because of my meds.
All in all the physical recovery is everything I had come to expect, jam-packed with itching, burning, stabbing, and various other sustained pains. Not to mention the glorious feeling of not being able to walk without crutches, and even then not with any real pride. I can finally take baby steps, though, and monday I get to set up a physical therapy schedule, so, hopefully, by the end of the week I can discard the utches around the house, at least.
This combination of my shitty attitude and no exercise is just making me so damn bitter. I know this is going to pass, and I know that I'm going to recover, I just don't want to deal with anyone in the meantime. Big thanks to my mother and Brian for all the help.
I cut things off with the girl I was talking to, since I don't think she deserves the bullshit that is me in this state of mind. Not that it was going to last forever, anyway. A goal for when I finally recover is to find a girl that I actually want to hang out with when I'm sober. Good luck, me.
I think I did a good job of not making it a highly-publicized bit of info that I was going under the knife, except for maybe a few responses on facebook, but that's better than a lame ass "wish me luck" type of post. The last thing I want is a bunch of well-wishing friends asking me if everything is okay. Yes, I'm fine. Talk to me when I can run and dance again. I still, of course, appreciate the good intent.
I even set up all the people who I would copy notes from beforehand, so I just had to deal with a quick conversation at the photocopy, and then I could get back to business: laying in bed on a continuous passive motion machine for six hours a day, while I itch like a fucking junkie because of my meds.
All in all the physical recovery is everything I had come to expect, jam-packed with itching, burning, stabbing, and various other sustained pains. Not to mention the glorious feeling of not being able to walk without crutches, and even then not with any real pride. I can finally take baby steps, though, and monday I get to set up a physical therapy schedule, so, hopefully, by the end of the week I can discard the utches around the house, at least.
This combination of my shitty attitude and no exercise is just making me so damn bitter. I know this is going to pass, and I know that I'm going to recover, I just don't want to deal with anyone in the meantime. Big thanks to my mother and Brian for all the help.