Tricked you!

Today I was going to write about something completely different than what I'm really going to write about. You all narrowly escaped reading a depressing diatribe of depression and the annals of my anxieties that I'm currently having but after a breakfast of chocolate and Ativan, and a little sumpin' sumpin' last night, I'm feeling a little better. Plus I have more half-cocked entries to clean up and make into a cohesive post that hopefully won't make people want to put a bullet in my (or their) brains from reading yet another "depression blog".

However, I will admit that I've reached a stress pinnacle, again, and I'm about 2 minutes from having a full-blown screeching hair pulling no more wire hangers melt-down , so be on the lookout. I'm just saying. But we won't have to worry about that little snippet of my psyche today. You're welcome. The crazy, she's on pause. For the moment.

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In all of my fabulousness, I have one (snorf) teeny tiny fault. I'm the Supernova of Screw-ups. I'm the Queen of Klutz's. I am Betty Bumblefuck, nice to meet you. I hold a black belt in the ancient art of Stu Pid and could teach a Ph.D. level course in Accident Pronism and its Effects on the Modern Moron, see also; Untold Stories of the E.R. But not all of my injuries sustained are my fault. Sometimes walls jump out at you. Well. They do.

And although I'm normally extremely coordinated, I can whack a tennis ball at over 50 mph, I can catch a fly in my bare hands, I can bust a move like a sistah, I'm so accident prone it's sick. It's a sickness. I should be studied. Somehow, despite my ability to have cat-like reflexes and grab a glass half-way to floor after it's been knocked off a table, I can't seem to move through my world with a firm grasp of my own personal space and how my big ass fits in it.

I have punched myself in the face, more than once. I have caught my arm on a doorknob while trying to run out of a room and sustained a calcium deposit lump that looked like a tit on my forearm and took 2 years to dissipate. I've jumped into the back seat of the family Pinto only to be skewered in the ass on some asshole tool my asshole brother was using in his asshole ceramics class. I've ripped all the ligaments in my left pinkie putting my hair into a ponytail.

Alright, there is more to that one.

Many years ago I was walking out of my bedroom that happened to have large double doors with one door permanently locked shut. While I finished with the pony tail I naturally let my hands return to their normal position down at my sides. My timing, and my inability to recognize that not all of me was going to make it out the open door was inpecable. Because, as I mentioned, I'm missing some gene that gives me an acute awareness of my personal space.

Before I realize what's happened, I hear a thunderous CRASH as my little, dainty pink pinky gets caught on the locked door which then rocked in its frame with a triple BANG-A-LANG-A-LANG and pain shot through my hand like a hot bullet and I found myself writhing on the ground in agony, sure that I'd just experienced a full amputation of my arm while my dog sniffed my grimacing face. One trip to urgent care and a giant splint for me. And it still hurts to this day!

This is just a microscopic sampling of some of my more classic moves. I literally hurt myself MANY TIMES A DAY. Whack my hands on stuff. Bite my tongue. Shampoo in the mouth. I could take out my eye with a kleenex. I also shut my nipple in a desk drawer once. True story. And very very occasionally, I make very very dumb decisions that cause me very very much pain. Today was one of those days.

I was at my Wednesday physical therapy session this morning because we're trying to fix my stupid feet and effed up back and broken ass (I'll tell that tale of woah another time. Woah. Get it? It involves a horse. Ha! I crack myself up.) After I'm tortured for about a half hour with the poking and the bending and the almost inappropriate touching, I have to have electric stim therapy and insanely cold ice packs on various parts of my person. (Seriously. Do they soak those packs in dry ice or what?)

Anyway, I get hooked up to 4 electrodes, that are on very sticky pads, on my lower back and 4 on my neck. The helper chick who isn't the sharpest tool in the shed had multiple problems getting all of this shit going and there was no way I could stay for the 15 minutes that was set on the timer. I needed to get back to work so I figured I'd just get up and go.

I stood up and peaked out the door and didn't see anyone around I could holler to and I couldn't figure out how to turn off the machine and since I was all wired and attached to a big electronic thing on a rolling cart like a chubby marionette I couldn't very well walk anywhere to get some assistance. That's when I got the genius idea to take the electrodes off myself and have the chick turn off the machine after I was gone. I've pulled the sticky things off before, and thought, it shouldn't hurt the machine right? No big deal cuz I'z gotsta go!

I reached back with my left hand and began to peel off the first pad on my lower back and all of a fucking sudden, ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP.

WTF??? Jesus, God, Jesus, OUCH!!

What felt like a gentle little tickle of a feather on my back was more like a freaking cattle prod on my thumb!

I quickly tried to get the medieval electrocution torture device off my screaming digit and managed to get it stuck to my pointer finger. ZZZZZAAAAAPPPPPPPP. Cattle prod.

Mother fucker. Dammit. Jesus. God. Get it off. OUCH!! OUCH!! OUCH!!

Then I transferred it back to my thumb where it stuck again!

ZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.

GAH. OOF. FUCK!!

I finally got it through my retarded head to just put the fucking thing back on my back and call an expert for help. Which I did and I was rescued and I left.

However, 7 hours later and my thumb is still zinging.

And. I am stupid.