I've been holed up in my apartment all weekend due to a dual knee injury. It sucks. Thursday morning I gracefully fell out of my bed and twisted both knees; it kept me from work on Friday because I could barely walk and I committed to bed rest all weekend so I could go back on Monday.
But as I lie here though, I realize that I'm in a truly scary place. There's no one here to notice if I eat shit on my steps and break my neck (which I've almost done twice). I'm now the person who, if someone called the cops to do a welfare check on me, would only be noticed gone by my co-workers. Not even my sweet surfing hippie Christian neighbors would notice, since they see me so irregularly already.
It's difficult. The thought of having to climb into the shower, into clothes, down my precarious stairs, into the car and into the store for necessary groceries and a second knee brace was so daunting it took me hours to build up to it. I don't have my mom, other ma, brother, friends to call and help me out so I can avoid all the strain and drama.
Most people without the incredibly strong spiderweb of familial and friend connections as I do resort to the next best thing: a romantic relationship. Who better to ask, "Babe, could you grab me a knee brace and possibly a shamrock shake?" then your boo? But alas, since I don't want to be barefoot and pregnant OR a bro ho, I am pleasantly single.
Shit man. I am totally isolated.
Which makes me think of Joy Division's "Isolation"...
Conclusion: I need to bring Lucy asap to bark at my injured broken body should I wipe out at the bottom of the stairs to alert the neighbors, Lassie-status.
Happy Weekend, mon chers.
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