Most people, when they see something the size of a large refrigerator falling, get out of the way and watch it go boom. Many giggle, because big things falling and breaking tend to amuse humans.
Then you’ve got me. Suffering from a case of testosterone poisoning, and a nice knee-jerk reaction, I caught said refrigerator and saved it from certain doom. Not being of comic book ancestry, the fridge naturally broke my right hand… but in a way that I really didn’t notice until, oh, 8 hours later. This was all back in October, mind you. Being the BAMF kind of idiot that you’ve probably already pegged me for, I worked for 8 months with torn cartilage in my right wrist before surgery on July 12. Lucky for me, this whole debacle started at work, so I’m getting paid to sit on my ass and recover in a cast that goes all the way up to my bicep. Oh yeah, did I mention that I’m right handed?
Of course, this now means I can live the real American Dream– daily I sit, high as balls on Norco, in my parents’ basement– watching TV, messing around on the web, sleeping, and getting paid for it. That got boring in less than two weeks flat, so, I decided to put my dusty writing degree to work while my once Panzer-grade body rusts from lack of use.
Lucky for me, I’m a virile youngish man, so typing one-handed isn’t a hurdle. Along those lines, being the target of a plethora of obligatory masturbation injury jokes isn’t the most annoying part of not being able to use my dominant hand. For example, I can’t freaking butter toast. No joke. I can shave, use chopsticks, and dress myself without much issue (with just a left hand). Hell, I’ve even learned how to tie a heroin-junkie knot with my teeth (to seal a garbage bag over my cast) just to be able to shower. It’s the stupid, little things that you never realize require two semi-usable hands that screw with me on a daily basis. Like buttering toast.
One of my favorite forms of relaxation, besides those that taught me how to effectively type with just my left hand, used to be cooking. I was pretty damn good, and believe you me– the ladies loved it (guys’ll eat damn near anything so my buddies’ enthusiasm kinda doesn’t count here). Now I have to ask my mom to freaking butter my toast (but I’m totally working on it) in between narcotic-induced naps. Don’t get me started on her constant joking, “Are you ever gonna come out of that cave [the basement]?” I can’t even begin to tally the sheer quantity of references/jokes that could be made at my expense right now. Making one would be considered a “gimme,” even to a fourth grader.
So yeah, call this a forward, a preface, a preamble, an intro– whatever floats your boat. It’s just about my naptime.
Unplug.
Snark and Circumstance 