I am fully sick of this wrist and it’s been a whole 36 hours, gah.
I’m sick of explaining about it. I’m going to make up cards to hand out, except none will have the real story: “I started flailing when the hot wax hit my nipples, and whacked my wrist on the St Andrews cross” or “I broke it myself during the black mass as an offering to satan”. Or maybe “Overenthusiastic masturbation”. I’m pretty annoyed and inclined to want to make people feel uncomfortable.
I’m sick if vicodin. It’s almost not worth it — I get about 10 minutes’ actual pain relief, preceded by 3-4 hours of dizziness and nausea.
I’m sick of being unable to open jars, wash my one good hand hand easily, apply deodorant, sleep more than 4 hours at a go, put on a damn shirt, cut up food or carry more than one thing at a time — if I so much as bump the fingers, shooting pain ensues.
On the plus side, I’ve got my sweetie, who’s not only helping me in every possible way, he’s also dealing with The Puppy, who’s turning out to be a handful and a half.
Ah, well, it could be worse, right? I could’ve broken both of them.