Yeth, Marthter

Update on the inconvenient injury front: I went back to the doctor yesterday and got put on crutches, and now have a big dumb-looking fiberglass splint, since apparently my dignity hadn't plunged enough already in the past week. Still doesn't look like a break, but the doc called it a third-degree sprain, and that can't be any good.

I've actually been back at work since Tuesday, which is about as much fun as you'd expect, as is hauling around my seventeen-stone ass on crutches, like Oliver Platt miscast as Long John Silver. The use of one's legs is a thing not to be taken lightly, kids. Worst of all, perhaps, I've been craving Chipotle like a fiend for about a week now, but there's just no way I'm doing the Cripple Pole-Vault for the three or four blocks it would take to get it, not when going down the hall for a piss is like an endurance run.

In light of all this, I had to cancel plans to go to NYC for the opening weekend of Hellboy, and so am a sad panda indeed. Not that I'm much fun to be around right now anyway, since I've been alternating between cranky and bitchy with occasional touches of sullen. Ah, well. At least spring can only get better from here.

Thanks to everyone for posting your well-wishes over the last few days. It means a lot. It's really nice to know that as much as this sucks, I've got the best friends in the world. Love you all.