But What if I Need to Cut a Bitch?

Thankfully, unlike Kimora Lee Simmons, the need to cut a bitch has never come up in my life. Which is good, since I still can't work a knife.

Lack of bitch cutting ability aside, things are looking up in my latest injury saga. On Friday, my orthopedic surgeon pronounced the crack in my radius quite wee. In fact, he decided against casting it up and gave me a new splint instead.

Regard my new, fight the future, swollen like a son of a bitch mummy hand:






























The good doctor's prognosis sees the crack healing up in two to three weeks time. Hot, and also, damn. Want to know what the funny thing is, though? The hurty bits in my wrist have naught to do with the placement of the crack, but instead are localized in all of that tissue that connect my badass hand (it can be quite rude, sometimes) to my wrist. Holding things of any weight makes it yelp, and don't even think about asking it to move from side to side, or to rotate. However, things hurt less then yesterday, which hurts less then the day before, and again and again and again. I reckon I'll be back to doing the queen wave (Why, Helloooooooooooo!), not to mention making threats of bitch cutting, in no time.

Meanwhile, it's excellent to be able to type with my right hand again. And I'm slowly but surely making myself become ambidextrious. I'll be a whirling, two handed knife wheeling dervish when this is all over and done with!

Things that might have been embarrasing if it was anyone else but me:

• Before leaving the emergency room on Tuesday, I had to ask a triage nurse to zip up my coat for me. Hi! I three!
• That evening, I had to call my mom and dad over to my place to CUT UP FOOD FOR ME. Hi! I three!

I swear, being injured leads to the most excellent, snort-worthy tableaux.