it’s saturday night, friends and neighbors, and while normally that means time to get the hell out of the house and go boogie or something, today it means something way, way more fun:

wooooooooooohoooooooooooo!

i swear to you, as soon as i pulled off the ace bandage and the cold wrap, and got off as much of the gauze as i could, i danced my way to the kitchen. (or as close as you can come to dancing while being careful to keep my wrist and arm straight, and vertical. which was actual;ly pretty close, all things considered.)

i have to admit i was also really kinda curious what my incision would look like, and how many stitches i would have. imagine my disappointment when i saw that i apparently have no stitches: i think they used that liquid skin stuff — like for paperfcute, only in the surgical strength version. seriously, i can’t see any stitches. i’m kinda bummed. i guess i keep my previous record of 8 stitches (left knee; ran into a wire rabbit cage while playing hide and seek in the dark at a friend’s farmhouse at age 9 or so. kids, friendly bit of advice here, on a farm with real live implements of destruction is not a smart place to play hide and seek in the dark.).

the incision itself is fairly frankenstenian. kinda jagged, and about 7 inches long. starting under my thumb ball joint, it curves slightly and ends up in the middle of the underside of my forearm. i have to admit i’m a little worried that the scar will look like i tried to commit suicide. steve suggests i get a tattoo to cover it up, but i’ll just have to figure out what to get.

from an email to michael:

: [something about does niqui calling sushi dinner ‘state sponsored’ mean niqui is getting a fat check from the government for her woes]

you know, i’ve actually done a little thinking about litigation. not so much in the “i want to sue” column, but in the “i hope work doesn’t want me to sue atlanta” or whatever. and also in the i want to write a letter to atlanta’s streets and san people and tell them “funny, almost the entire time i was in atlanta i was all about ‘you know, those ungrated storm drains look really dangerous and you ought to put something over them or someone could fall into one,’ and then *i* fell into one! so you should fucking fix them, jerks!” but i don’t think i would be wise to do something like that (that could, by the properly paranoid, be construed as some sort of threat to litigate) without the advice of a lawyer — don’t poke the sleeping lion and all that — but shit, i just wanna say “i (mentally) told you so, pigfuckers, and maybe the next person to be a klutz in atlanta won’t be so philosophically opposed to extortant lawsuits for shit that you know the jury would award them some ridiculous sum for.”

i really, really want to “i told you so” them. even if i only told them so in my head.

i also really want to see an mri of my wrist now, with the plate and screw. and also i want to find out if i set off airport security.

but first? A SHOWER.