Under the phalanx.


Left side below the pinky. Spiral fracture.

The following took place between 12pm and 1 pm on Tuesday, the day before Friday and any other day of the week if you’re looking forward on a calendar.

“Thane, no.”


“I need an adult!”

*rolls onto back and kicks the air like a drunken beetle*

I am a wee bit fuzzy from Percocet as of this chronicling.  Is that a real word?  Anyway, I was prescribed Vicodin by a mysterious hooded man at the hospital.  He certainly gained my trust when he got my attention by whispering, ” PST!  Hey kid, take this.” and tossed me a hand-sized burlap sack filled with something safe to take.  Initially I was offended that he called me a kid.  I’ve been without a wet bed for over two weeks now and I doubt he can boast the same.  The Vicodin didn’t work, no matter how many I took (between 6 and 60), my pain remained the same and I only felt slightly drowsy even though my pupils had all but disappeared into my stunning blue eyes.  I now have a friends-with-benefits relationship with Percocet and am not really enjoying it.  This loopiness is wack — nay!  It’s wiggity wack.  I feel more drunk than high from this maverick medication and I demand a report on how to proceed with it.

My hand is in a splint.  There will be a next paragraph.

Welcome to the foretold paragraph.  Jealous of my premonitions?  I am too.  On an unrelated note, last night I was woken by massive thunder claps, studio audience claps, and lightning.  Monsoon season is approaching.  Initially, I thought a ghost had turned on my computer last night, opened iTunes and started playing my thunderstorm tracks to wake me up and then relax me with said tracks to help me back to sleep but it wasn’t so.  I got up off the floor and peered outside and witnessed the bland drama of a mediocre T-storm!  “Egads!” I whispered and went back to sleep.

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