the field hockey coach said i might have a shot at varsity this year

i went to the hospital last night. on sunday, i decided to cruise up and down the street outside of a friend's house on a long board that could have very well been on the titanic. as i kicked, pushed, kicked, pushed, kicked pushed, kicked, pushed... coasted, something went horribly, horribly wrong. the traitorous board suddenly stopped and reversed direction, leaving me with no other option but to pitch myself forward like an elderly person failing to maneuver a steep set of stairs ("fiddlesticks!" i screamed). as i hit the ground, i made a comical attempt to tuck in my flailing limbs and roll as layers of skin on my knee, hip, and hands were left yards behind me. as i came to a stop, my options for a response to this feat of moron gymnastics became clear to me: i could a). cry, because it hurt like a mother and it was pretty embarrassing; or b). laugh, because if people think i'm stoned or drunk at least i'd have an excuse. i opted for a combination of the two, something like a teary-eyed beavis sitting on the ground staring at his bloody hands trying to remember where he left the funions. as i collected myself and started assessing the damage, i noticed that my right thumb just wouldn't behave. a sort of grinding, popping sensation ensued as i slid the bone in and out of the joint closest to the wrist with a look of amused bewilderment on my face. "whoa", says i.

fast foward to last night. the wayward thumb has swollen to the size of a bloated corn dog and i can no longer zip up my pants, brush my teeth, turn on my car, shake hands at church, or threaten the noisy neighbor kids with a shaking of the closed fist. at campaigners, as chandler gives a riveting lesson on the power of Christ and our need for raw, honest faith, i sit staring at my newly obese dominant hand. chandler has been coaxing me into getting x-rays for the past 24 hours, and, because i'm a dude and i don't get many chances to act like it, i refuse. but then, as my gaze drifts from my boo boo to the nappy 70's style carpet, i begin to imagine what life will be like with a johnny tremain-style right hand. will i be able to suck at climbing still? could i still hit a volleyball over the net 3% of the time with a crippled wing? what if i can't suck at guitar any more? what about bowling? this thing could heal the wrong way and suddenly i'm like verbal from the usual suspects only with half the IQ and none of the friends.

so i go to the hospital, watch some "cold case" on cbs as i wait for my x-rays, and get hit on by a 60 year old snowboarding nurse person who claims that she made a copy of my driver's license to look at when she needs a good laugh. the doctor comes in, tells me i've probably just stretched or tore some ligaments, and that a nurse will wrap my thumb and send me home. now, i've had like 2 weeks of medical training in college, so i speak doc a bit and can easily interpret his diagnosis as something like, "you are a pathetic sissy girl person who has limited tolerance for discomfort and i am irritated that these last 20 minutes of my life have been spent humoring your sad little cries for attention. i drink heavily because of people like you." they wrap my thumb with an ace bandage and i shuffle out the door, hanging my head in shame as that sad music from charlie brown plays in the background. i go home, desperate to fix a car or chop down a tree or something because... holy crap... i just went to the emergency room for a sprain.

ear candy:
"teardrop" by the flash hawk parlor ensemble

eye candy:
the new season of sunny. leave your dignity at the door.

hip hop gangster shout out to:
emily hall. you're getting married. tell me, emily, how your life is treating you.