Yesterday, my best friend Rose (unintendedmuse
) fell and wound up with a mild concussion. I found out about this while in the middle of making cake, which meant I dropped everything (egg shells, spatula, chocolate melting in an improvised boudle-boiler on the stove) and ran to the computer to be all, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?"
She was okay. Concussed, but okay. She was even cleared to go back to class, which she did. Because she's fucking badass.
I finished making the cake while texting her to keep her company. It was a chocolate orange Kahlua cake that only happened because I was bored and hadn't baked in three weeks. Or maybe the universe was telling me that my braintwin had just fallen and gotten a concussion and could use some fucking chocolate. Because, you know, of all the things I could give a girl with a concussion, I think consolation cake is pretty fucking prime. So of course I offered to come right over and bring her some. She said it was too late at night, but to definitely come by tomorrow.
It is now tomorrow. Rose wants to hang out. I am looking forward to seeing my best friend, who I haven't hung out with in two whole weeks, and also I want to give her a big hug and fuss over her. She says, "Go get ready, we're getting pizza, we'll pick you up on the way."
So I go get in the shower and promptly slip, fall, crash, bang my head and my hand, and land directly on my knee.
You know, these knees that have loose patellas and arthritis and can't be walked on for a week after the slightest injury because they're too busy swelling up to the size of grapefruits? YEAH, THOSE.
This means I can't really do more than hobble around now for awhile, but I'm not mad. I mean, I could be pissed at the world, or I could laugh. Because this whole thing just feels so absurd. You really have no recourse but to crack up when you wind up ass over teakettle on the bathroom floor, limbs in a tangle, one leg somehow caught under you and the other assaulting the toilet, wet and naked with hair strung across your face, yelping and cussing and hollering, while your two male roommates come running to the other side of the door and go, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?" and you have to say, "NO. AND DON'T COME IN." Because you really do need a hand up, ow ow motherfucking ow, but your bits are everywhere and the towel's on a hook all the way up at the top
of the door, and didn't your best friend JUST DO THIS YESTERDAY?
This is apparently the Chelle version of "fall and get concussed". I totally blame Rose. Fucking braintwins.
If anybody needs me, I'll be in my room with knee braces, pain killers, reruns of Project Runway, and some Mayan Chocolate ice cream. :P