I broke my core. I was trying to strengthen it, but I accidentally broke it. I thought I was operating once again with a reasonably aligned pelvis, but it turns out I was wrong, wrong, wrong. I went to the doctor yesterday and got shot after shot of lidocaine, and am now taking prednisone and percocet. I can’t really move. I have crutches. Crutches that smell weird. Bad weird, not good weird like patchouli or glue. I’m stuck on the couch. I’m being cared for by a Brain Scientist. It turns out that he was not meant to be a nurse. If you know Dr. BS you will nod knowingly at this point. I’m trapped. I never saw that movie Castaway but I know Tom Hanks talked to a beach ball or whatever and I am like that now but with no balls. All I have is this computer.
I am glum because I can’t bake cookies. Or decorate anything. Or take BS, Jr. shopping. Or make anything. Or pick up my children. The brain scientist is doing these things, though. He was making candy. But then he went outside and was gone, leaving me in one room and a cauldron of candy in the other. When the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen it seemed plausible that stuff had ignited, so I called feebly to Dr. BS and hobbled off to accidentally catch my pajamas on fire. Fortunately it was all smoke and no fire, but by the time I figured that out Dr. BS was in the kitchen giving me a scoldly voiced WHAT ARE YOU DOING OFF THE COUCH YOU WILL NEVER GET BETTER IF YOU… while the smoke detector BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEPED. Are you serious? What am I doing off the couch? Goddamn it, Willy Wonka, I am saving lives. Don’t leave your fucking candy unattended, you everlasting gobstopper.