Since the doctor saw a shadow on my X-ray, I’m due for another six weeks of crutches.
I should be walking normally by June, they chuckled. (Actually, they were really nice and sympathetic, but I’ll go mad if I can’t make someone the villain in this story.)
This is unacceptable. I have a three-year-old hellion who never stops moving, a sick cat, a paper due, four thousand library books due on campus and no way to park within a mile of the drop slot, a novel that’s so close to being done that I can taste it, a potential move, two trips involving air travel, a filthy house, an unbearable urge to go running, and an overdeveloped case of liberal guilt pulling me to volunteer seven days a week to deal with this month.
Can’t you freaking take these feet off and give me stronger models?
And while you’re at it, fit my kid for new hands. He’s been asking and I figure it’ll be like an early birthday present.