cast me off into exile

This was entirely unexpected yet totally expected at the same time.

First off, I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks – just a broken foot.

How’d this happen? Well, I’ve kind of been a bad girl. My left foot has been bothering me since before Barcelona, and I know enough about the anatomy of my feet to know it was likely a stress fracture. Armed with that knowledge, I promptly did absolutely nothing. I walked on it, hopped around like a kangaroo, jumped when commanded to do so by the House of Pain (ooh, irony), and basically lived my life ignoring the fact that there was an ever-increasing amount of pain radiating from my left foot at all times.

This past week was really bad. I couldn’t put any weight on my foot without wincing in pain, and relaxing my foot in any way made me make very undignified whimpering noises, if not outright agonized cries. You’d think I’d finally be smart enough to see a doctor, but nope – that is not how we do things around here, young lady. It wasn’t until this afternoon when I tripped in the samosa shop, both stubbing and landing heavily on my damaged foot, that the pain finally made me cry actual tears. Taking my tears as a sign, we went to the ER and five long, long, LONG hours later, here I am with a foot that graduated from stress fracture to full-on real fracture.

knee high casts, so hot right now

I may not be in the cast or on crutches forever – I have to see an orthopaedic guy who will determine my fate. The cast is a bit of overkill, but the doc decided it was necessary when he learned I have a history of a) stress fractures, and b) making really bad decisions. I wasn’t at all confident I could keep an air cast on, so I get one that can’t be removed. It’s like putting a cone on a dog. This is my cone. It is weird.

Also, crutches suck. Hopefully I can get the OK to work from home next week – if not, I’ll need to leave for the office soon. If I’m lucky, I’ll get there by Tuesday if I start now.

I’m pretty pissed that I’m gonna have to miss tomorrow’s piñata making class, though. I’ve been looking forward to that for weeks.


If I could change one thing about myself – just one thing – it wouldn’t be my fat ass, or my disgusting body, or my broken personality, or my selfishness, or my facial scars, or my deformed feet, or my inability to feel loved, or my overall resemblance to the Michelin Man, or my evidently atrocious self-esteem .. no, if I could change just one thing about myself, it would be that thing where I CRY LIKE A FUCKING CHILD WHEN I’M ANGRY OR FRUSTRATED.

It is SO EMBARRASSING. I would love to be able to hold an adult conversation and use my mouth words to describe my feelings, instead of letting them leak out of my eyeballs. I’m not sad, I’m upset and I have a point and I would like to say these things, but BOOOO HOO HOOOO HOOOOOOOOO sob sob sob ARGH. Embarrassing. Frustrating. Annoying. Undermining.

.. and now I’m angry at myself, and totally in tears about it. :(((((((((((((((((

life skills

At what point in a person’s life do they stop being senselessly pleased at accomplishing small, run-of-the-mill tasks? Last night I successfully navigated my way home from the bowels of South Vancouver at 2 in the morning, by alien bus and a cab – and I am pleased as punch at myself for doing so. It’s pretty stupid (not to mention fairly insulting), as people complete amazing journeys and overcome insurmountable odds every day, yet I am patting myself on the back for basically crossing the street without a grown-up. How I am able to navigate the world without a helmet and a chaperone, I’ll never know.

My ride home fell through last night when the beer bong (did you know that is a thing? I did not know that was an actual thing; I thought it was something invented by Hollywood for the frat bro movie genre) came out, so I caught the last bus out of Marpole and found myself wandering the fragrant streets of Main and Hastings at 1:30 in the morning. I fully intended to hop the 135 bus home from there, but my stop was overflowing with humanity in varying states of inebriation. I was more than a little tired of being the only sober face in the crowd by then, so I opted to hail a cab instead and made it home safely in 15 minutes or so. I’m a little gun shy when it comes to taking taxis – for starters, I really do hate to be an inconvenience to people (even if their job is to be inconvenienced by me), and also ever since I had a cab driver try to invite himself up to my hotel room the first time I was in Toronto (doing many things for the first time: travelling, business tripping, taking a cab by myself, etc). Still, I was inordinately pleased with myself for successfully hailing a cab and getting home in one piece. I’m such an adorable little broken and socially inept simpleton!

I don’t know if it was because this is Pride weekend or if it is the normal state of Hastings and Main at 1:30 in the morning, but there were so many cross-dressed prostitutes out! They all had better legs than me. In fact, that was the easiest way to spot them: see some excellent legs strutting about on a pair of terrifying shoes, realize it’s a man, still be jealous of the excellent legs.

Speaking of Pride, I am my annual depressed self that I am not downtown, revelling in the festivities. I desperately want to Pride it up with the rest of the city, but I am so bad in crowds (and triple that when I’m by myself). Most of the people I know either don’t do Pride, or they’ve got group plans that I don’t want to intrude upon .. so I stay home and alternate between feeling sorry for myself and angry at my inability to handle seething throngs of thongs. If only there was some kind of substance I could take that would ease my overwhelming anxiety – some sort of medicinal herb or distilled fermented liquid or even an assortment of chemicals designed to bind to specific sites on my gamma-amino-butyric acid receptor – but I can’t for the life of me think of anything like that, so here I am; alone and not covered in rainbows.

I’m starting to think it’s isn’t much fun to be as broken as I am, no matter how I try to convince myself and the internet otherwise.

Adventures in Babysitting aside, I did have fun last night. I met some very cool people I hope to see again for additional awesome conversations and spent some Quality Time with some of my favourite people. My 3pm nudity does belie the plans I have to get out of the house today for fresh air and picture taking, but this was all a part of my Sunday strategy: sleep, laundry, and too much time spent inside my head. Nothing is all bad by any stretch of the imagination; it’s just a little lonely sometimes (and subsequently gets Ace of Base stuck in my head for hours thanks to some amazing logic gymnastics and the 90s fused to my bones like a kitschy and less lethal form of Wolverine’s adamantium).

Happy Pride, everyone!