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Oh, dear faithful Bar Havoc readers, how it pains me to admit defeat, to admit the mighty have fallen, to admit that I have literally been horizontal and wrapped up in elastic waistband pants for a week now. (Not the same pair of pants, that’s gross. I have two pairs on rotation, duh.) I haven’t been outside in that long, haven’t had a beer or a shot of fireball. Shoes? What are those? Someone said it snowed, but I’m not sure. I left the hospital after ankle surgery on Monday almost in tears, as they said I’m looking at a four-week recovery of foot-elevated, non-moving house-arrest. What the actual fuck?
The perks are minimal. I haven’t worn contact lenses all week. Or bronzer. Or mascara. I haven’t straightened my hair. I was finally able to wash my hair, my leg propped awkwardly out of the bubble bath, but you’re not supposed to get it wet after surgery. In the meantime, Facebook is my best friend. No, Instagram is. Or Twitter. Who wants to see another photo of my cat? To boot, I’ve watched every episode of seasons one and three of American Horror Story, The Biggest Loser, The Real World, Pretty Little Liars, and Mick Foley’s documentary, For All Mankind. I’ve lost track of time, napped more than my cat, and drifted in and out of reality depending on how many painkillers I had down.
I’m pretty sure this is what it’s like to be a dog, patiently waiting, bummed out and alone after their master leaves for work. When the key turns in the lock and friends walk in, my ears perk up, and I can’t help but get excited. You’re home! Wanna play? Watch a movie? Look at this text! How was work? Who was there? Are you tired? Got treats?
On the slightly brighter side, I’m fortunate to have somebody taking care of me. Nevertheless, this is all especially strange since last week I was crying down another path in life. Apparently, there was a loop in time, and I traveled back through injury to when everything was almost fine. Now the thing I’m most worried about is hobbling around if I’m alone and landing in a “fallen and I can’t get up” pickle.
Finally, I can’t tell if I’m getting fatter or skinnier. Don’t people get sores from staying in bed too long? How can I feel sexy with my foot swollen to the size of Andre the Giant’s neck? And why can’t I drink on antibiotics? Who came up with that rule? Can I learn to drive with my left foot? I can totally elevate the right one on the dashboard and use my crutches like turn-signal oars out the windows.
Who am I kidding though? I’m not going anywhere. I feel pale. And I look gross, so don’t look at me. Wait, come back, look at me, I’m bored. I promise–I’ll even tell you how this happened in the first place.