As I pulled my computer onto my lap, I thought another evening would go by without writing a word. Since returning from the hospital my days have been rather word-less. Of course a lot of ‘thank yous’ have been offered; my friends have been legendary. But the long hours in bed with this useless ankle raised onto pillows like it’s the king of that freaking place where Thor lives, have rendered me a little…uninspired.

I assumed that my immobility would be super conducive to lots of writing and reading and intellectualizing and some other deep stuff. Au contraire, my fine reading friend. My uselessness has exploded in all directions.

The hours in bed is dedicated to staring at the ceiling, thinking about how useless I am, thinking how all of this is somehow my orthopedic surgeon’s fault and watching the endless supply of Christmas movies. SPOILER ALERT: they get together just in time for Christmas and live happily ever after.

Kill me with a spoon.

I’m usually not bad at figuring out the inner workings of my internal conflicts, but this one has me stumped. It’s a broken ankle, for the love of Jason Momoa, not a terminal illness or a permanent disability. What’s wrong with me?!

LeAnn Rimes’s Blue is drifting from the radio like some healing fog rolling in and threatening to make everything alright. Music helps.

And so do wine…

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