My Shoulder Hurts
"You sure did a good job on that shoulder."
"Yeah, it was pretty fucked up," I reply, reading his name tag.
I guess it makes no difference if it's a little white pill causing my distress or the fact that I have six chunks of metal and a vast, interwoven web of sutures pinching my muscles and ligaments together within my shoulder. Maybe it’s because I can’t work with my sling on and I’m petrified that I’m going to destroy any benefits that my surgery may give me by sitting here typing all fucking day. Maybe it’s because I’m generally not as agile as I am used to being and am growing fatter with each passing day of minimal activity.
Well, until I get better, I can be as bitter as I want, assholes.
Physical Pain has cut through my artistic output like a dull scalpel. It has hampered my poker playing, made defecating a rare and difficult task, and, worst of all, it has given me The Fear. The Fear that all of this may not actually cure my bimonthly (twice a month?) shoulder separations and that all this may just be a painfully annoying half year of "recovery".
"You sure did a good job on that shoulder."
"Yeah, it was pretty fucked up," I reply, reading his name tag.
"You had a tear going from the top of your shoulder all the way down to your armpit."
>giggling<
>giggling<
"What's so funny?"
Then again, maybe it's not the pain and the doubt that is troubling me. Maybe it's the evil, Rush Limbaugh-crippling narcotic Oxycodone that has brought about this mean funk for the past 2.5 weeks. This is a narcotic so powerful that, after blowing $100 on $1-$2 poker tournaments in one night, caused me to purchase $70 worth of hard-to-find candy that I enjoyed as a youth. A narcotic so powerful that I briefly considered Hilton/Coulter a winning Republican Presidential ticket…and thought it might be hot. What the hell?
I guess it makes no difference if it's a little white pill causing my distress or the fact that I have six chunks of metal and a vast, interwoven web of sutures pinching my muscles and ligaments together within my shoulder. Maybe it’s because I can’t work with my sling on and I’m petrified that I’m going to destroy any benefits that my surgery may give me by sitting here typing all fucking day. Maybe it’s because I’m generally not as agile as I am used to being and am growing fatter with each passing day of minimal activity.
This weakness is making me bitter.
But really, how can I be bitter when my doctor’s name is…Dr. Cummins?
>giggling<
How can I be bitter when I beat Master P at Golden Tee left handed Sunday night.
How can I be bitter when I will be heading to sunny Aruba to play poker, drink, and recuperate in December…or that another trip to Vegas is in the works for February?
Well, until I get better, I can be as bitter as I want, assholes.
Nnnnnnaaaaaa what’s up Doc?
You are asking the wrong doctor, rabbit, and take that carrot out of your mouth.
posted by The Youngest at 9:19 AM
3 Comments:
I just need to add an "*" to LB's assertion that he beat me left handed in Golden. First, he has only used the left hand for drives, even a shoulderless monkey could accomplish that minimal feat. Second, he has enough range of motion to continue putting with the thumbs of both hands, and we all know that is his strong suit in Tee anyway. Third, we've recently registered so his long game is now better than previously (what with better balls and clubs). Fourth and final, I do care for the Little B thus I've been doing what any good friend would do and been toning my game down and taking it easy on the guy. After all it would be cruel to point out his handicap and then take advantage....who the fuck am I kidding, we're headed to play right now and I'm going to trounce the fucker for the audacity of his including said victory in your blog. Until the impending holiday festivities, peace.
I won by 12 strokes. pwnd
Game on!
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