It's off, it's off, thank fucking christ it's finally off!
That's all I've been able to think about for days (in case you hadn't noticed). I just want my freedom back. I've been injured a few times over the years and every time, I am absolutely miserable because I just need my fucking freedom.
I hate feeling helpless and these weeks when I'm in a cast and immobile and the pain meds have me so lethargic I fall into a depression, it's feels pretty helpless.
Thank god for my husband or I wouldn't have been killing either. Six weeks without murder, can you imagine? I think even when I was going through rehab, I was only out of commission for four weeks at the most. Maybe I'm misremembering my time in a mental institution overcoming my addiction and psychosis related to murder.
Either way, I have been clawing the fucking walls off, waiting for the all-clear from the doctor and now it's finally here.
Well... sort of.
The cast is off, which means I'm able to move around more independently, but I still have a few weeks of physiotherapy so I can rebuild the muscle. So I'm back! ... but it's a soft back. Which is okay because I have spent six weeks having my husband basically bring me drive-thru murders and I am so ready dine out again. Even if it's just sitting inside the McDonalds instead of in our car in the parking lot.
This metaphor has gotten away from me a bit.
The point is: my cast is off and I'm happy about it. Is it the answer to all of my problems? No. Is it enough for now? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Am I swearing too much today? I'm going to blame Linda in HR. She swears like a fucking trucker and it's definitely rubbing off on me.
...
As is her filthy sense of humor.
As always, dear readers,
Stay Safe
No comments:
Post a Comment