How 'bout my wrist? Because, really? Yes. I am about to write a post about my wrist. And just like that, I've lost my twenty-something readership.
(But my WRIST! ::whine:: It hurts!) Did they come back?
I'd like to tell you that this was the result of a fantastic sports injury that involved me miscalculating that parallel bar after having pole vaulted my way to the gym.
But that didn't actually happen. Nor did I injure my wrist after having wrestled a burglar into submission using only a paper towel roll and a cat.
Nope. None of those things. Sadly, I just, um.....woke up. It's kind of like telling people that you threw out your back and now need surgery and OHMYGOD WHATHAPPENED?! Oh, I just sneezed. But this is way lamer. Because you have to wear this:
According to my doctor, there's a gang of cysts living in my wrist, and I'm getting kind of pissed because haven't gangs done enough damage to this nation already? Now they need my fucking wrist? All I know is that if they are tagging shit up, I am fully doing a drive by. Or at least flashing some rival gang signs. Or not. Because MY WRIST HURTS.
Anyway, even writing this post is getting e grouchy because OUCHOUCHOUCHOUCH. Especially after yesterday when the doctor was all,
"Does this hurt?"
"How 'bout this?"
Then he had me do this thing where I was supposed to squeeze his fingers except then he wanted me to stop, but I didn't realize that. So there was this awkward "Um, let go of me?" moment.
I hope I don't get sued for sexual harassment.
(Maybe we'll just stick with my wrist-story for this post.)