For those who don't get the joke, it's supposed to read like this: You can go to hell and I will go to Texas. I'm not sure who said it but I guess it's a famous quote from somewhere because I saw it on a bumper sticker.
Longhorn is this weekend and I won't be there. Kona is this month and I won't be there, either. I will, however, be in a physical therapist's office and I really hope they aren't sensitive to the f-bomb. The soundtrack to this back injury is loaded with f-bombs, like a rap song without the racial epithets.
Last night I had the audacity to reach for a dryer sheet. Apparently, my back hates Bounce because it did whatever it does to bring on the hurt. Today I was as absent from the vintage stores as I will be from Longhorn/Kona. Today I've been doped up on muscle relaxants.
My schedule went something like this: Read, go into a coma, wake up, eat a handful of something, repeat. For a field trip, I went to the bathroom where I looked in the mirror. I look like I'm posing for a mug shot.
The muscle relaxants are also good for calming down the cooped up, frustrated, uber-bitch that I have become. At least when I had the gnarly road rash bike accident, I could look at (at get nauseous by) the right side of my body. This time the injury is not visible.
Secondly, invisible injuries are normally something I can ignore and train anyway, which is probably what got me into this mess in the first place.
In any case, I'm sick of listening to myself whine. And curse like a sailor on leave. I've taken to walking up and down the stairs for a workout like a hamster on a wheel. I also put my ice skates on and walk around the house. Freakin' psycho.
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