It has been so long since I set foot in this old, run down house, that I had to stop and remember where everything was. The living room was rearranged, but my room upstairs was left unattended. A thin layer of dust covered just about everything with a surface, making me sneeze when I flopped on to my old futon (beds are for rich people). The water in my fish bowl was dry, and the fish was... dead, for lack of a gruesome tale. I emptied it out as soon as I saw it, giving him a one flush salute. Adios, flesh and bone remains of Castor the goldfish. May you swim with all the other fish in the... sky?
All of the stairs in this house was killing my nub of a leg. Yeah, I am missing everything below my left knee. It was torn off in a car accident I had about a year ago. The whole thing was just a bloody mess, sending me in to a week long coma. However, the coma was gladly accepted when I woke up and noticed I was missing something very important below the belt (the gutters is no place for a dirty mind). At least they had the audacity and common knowledge to remove it while I was indisposed. Thank you, kind nurses and doctors. I still hate you and your fetish for jamming needles into my flesh and veins.
If you haven't noticed by now, I am jumpy when it comes to topics.
As for the point of this blog, my therapist recommended I kept a journal of some sorts to "aid in the healing process". I didn't understand what the healing process was for, but anything to keep her off my white ass. But I refused the journal and settled for a blog. Welcome to the twenty-first century, bitches.
Well, it is a quarter past eleven o'clock (give or take a few minutes) and I have to be up bright and early to run some errands. Tomorrow is a new day, maybe a bright and shiny new post, and the possibility that I will talk about my missing leg (because, you know, people stare).
Adieu,
William A. Gordon
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