Too bad I'm not the contemplative type...

This is not a sterotypical new years post. I feel like I ought to be looking back on this past year and numbering my accomplishments, while at the same time noting areas to be improved upon in the coming 365 days. Not bloody likely. I've already cracked open the Bailey's, and there are 2 bottles of wine chilling in the fridge and a couple of trashy movies waiting on the TV. I have no urge to do anything deep this new years eve. I don't even have the energy to party hard...I'll be staying in with my movies, my boy and my cat and drinking myself into a happy place.

This has been a Christmas that I think, when I look back on my deathbed, will fall in the lower percentiles of goodness. I mean, it was great to see my family, my grandparents, and, of course, Jon. The family is so big and so scattered it seems like we're never in the same place anymore. Let alone in the same place not fighting. So it was good in that regard I guess.

And it's not like I didn't get everything I could ever have wanted for Christmas. My parents are helping me buy a car, Jon bought me 2 bottles of my most favourite, limited edition wine (anyone who was at our infamous wine, beer, and cheese early enough got to sample some), I got a bunch of cool games (including Blue Moon City from Jon's parents! Woohoo!), clothes, cosmetics, and various knickknacks (including pyjamas that fit my freakishly long legs). So I guess I can't complain about that either.

Oh it probably would have been a top ten Christmas if I wasn't so busy feeling sorry for myself all the time. But damn, it's hard to be an invalid. I get grumpy every time someone else has to carry my milk for me, or when I can't even pick up my cat and walk around cuddling him anymore. I can't turn over in bed without waking up and having to carefully maneuver my foot around the blankets so there's no torque on my ankle. And don't even get me started about my love life.

I want to be able to go out running. I want to race up stairs 2 or 3 at a time. I want to go out dancing. I want to be able to shower without panicing every 5 minutes because I think I'm losing my balance. Fuck, I want this fucking cast off. I am so damned tired of it. And yeah, it's my own fault I've got it on, and yeah, it could be much worse, I'll probably regain full function pretty quick. Really, I've got nothing to complain about. It's just...shitty.

So, not the best Christmas ever, but no one to blame except myself for that. Hopefully next year will be better. Oh hey, I have a New Years resolution after all: I resolve not to break anything next year! I guess that means no drinking when it's really really ridiculously icy out. Among other things.

Broken ankles and flaming cats...bring on the Christmas holidays!

Quick post, a) because I feel like I owe this blog (and any sucker still reading it) a post, b) because I'm not feeling so hot right now and therefore don't feel like typing for any significant length of time.

Okay, so I broke my freaking ankle. This is what happens when you go out, get drunk, decide you need chips, then, after purchasing said chips, decide that walking home is quicker than bussing. Note, this is never the case, even when I am sober. Then, (continuing with my evening of brilliant deductive logic) I decided that the backroads were quicker than Douglas. This, of course, led to my getting lost. This then led to my getting frustrated and picking up the pace.

Now, Victoria, for those not in the know, has, until recently, been enjoying some unseasonably cold weather. We got a nice big snowfall, which then proceded to melt and freeze for about a week. By the time I was starting off on my Friday night escapades, all the sidewalks were liberally coated with a thick layer of solid ice.

So, of course, the inevitable happened. I fell. It was epic. One minute I was upright, striding along angrily, wanting only to be at home with my cat and a newly opened bag of chips, the next I was flat on my back, with my left ankle screaming in pain. I tried to get up. It didn't work, my ankle wouldn't hold me. I tried again. No luck. I lay on my back for a bit, tears streaming down my face, whimpering in panic at the thought of spending the entire night alone on the ice, and determined to try one more time. This time it worked.

How I got home is a blur. Some nice people having a staff party nearby called me a cab, fed me some coke and talked me through my panic a bit. Once I managed to limp into my room Linz and the Jon and then finally my father got to hear my story, in person or over the phone, liberally sprinkled with heaving sobs. Eventually, icepack clutched to my ankle, I fell asleep.

The next morning my mother came to pick me up. I was hoping that it was just a sprain (and trying to ignore the ominous grinding sensation in my foot every time I tried to put a shoe on it). No luck. Nice fracture of the distal fibula, needed a plate and a screw to hold in place (hello full anesthetic!), and now crutches and non weight bearing for 6wks. Wow, this sucks.

All right, my stomach hasn't recovered from the anesthetic yet so I'm not feeling great right now (though my leg feels much better). So I'll wrap this up. Oh yes, and Moe set himself on fire. I'll have to delve into the sordid details of that story later. No worries, he's fine except for an odd looking hair style.