In related news...

 ...yesterday damn near killed me.

I count Wednesday as a work day. The only day I don't count is Tuesday because of Spravato. No worries. I usually work at least half a day Sunday and most of Saturday. This is my fix.

Antyway...did a WM pick up at seven in the morning. Because I made an appt at 8:15 for Urgent Care and removal of stitches. Then...eleven o'clock was eye appt and new glasses.

sigh

WM pick up went swimmingly. Rushed home. Put stuff up. By that time, I needed to change and go to Urgent Care. It's a mile away.

Lo and behold, when I arrived in a timely manner, I was told I could indeed, NOT, get my stitches taken out there. Some new policy within the last couple of months. So I took my annoyed self in some Thai lounge pants and Salem, Massachusetts "witch" shirt back to Mercy ER.

Front chick checked me in. 

Then another chickie took me back to weigh me.

Now...let's be clear. I weigh myself every Wednesday. It's my routine, at this point. I look at the woman, tell her I weighed myself that morning and gave her the number.

This heifer looks at me. The scale. Back at me. 

My reply? "No."

That shit will make the sun shine out of your ass. 

She was pissed I broke protocol. I thought it bad form to break out in dance, but I wanted to.

She huffs and takes my blood pressure.

Back out to the waiting room.

Keep in mind, I'm in the ER for the removal of four stitches. They didn't weigh my short ass coming in, so I thought it was extra stupid. You know...above and beyond regular stupid.

Finally land my ass on a hospital bed in the hallway. 

PA Wong comes over and checks out his handiwork. I ask him if he's about to undo it. He says he'll grab his stuff and be right back. 

Cool beans.

The man comes back, snips one stitch, and the skin tries to pull away. BECAUSE OF COURSE IT DOES.

I knew my body wasn't ready for stitch removal, cue the soreness and pain, but I believed 10 days was enough time blah blah blah.

It was not.

Sir put a steri-strip across where the first stitch was and advised me to come back on Sunday (two weeks since my idiotic move.)

Fine.

Then, as an afterthought, PA Wong tells the nurse to get me a thumb splint.

Here's where it gets dicey. 

I assumed...why why why???...this would be something small that wrapped around my stitches and kept my thumb immobile. 

It was indeed, not.

I'm salty as the ocean by this time. 

Seriously? This monstrosity? For my fucking thumb?

First of all, I feel like this is overkill.

Do I want my thumb to peel open like an overripe banana?

Absolutely not.

But, FFS. 

Second of all, this bastard hurts the massive bruise I have on said injured hand.

But do I wear the bitch? Yeah.

I ask the nurse whether I need to shower with it.

She says no. And I don't need to wear it to bed.

Pardon my finest fuck, then why am I wearing it?

I'm supposed to keep my thumb up, and I've been doing that.

The only time I'm probably not is when I sleep.

So I listened to Dr. Inman, myself, and wear it at night now. 

I'm typing right now with no issue, thus far, and my steri-strip is calling my thumb "home" so there hasn't been a huge necessity to put on the beastie. And it's HOT. My poor thumb is in a sauna.

Later, I get ready for my eye appt at 11. It's in one of the malls. Great. I get a map. I find my spot. I park. 

I'm protesting, loudly, at the shit fucking day I've had whilst I glare at my left hand. Yank open the first JC Penney door, it was the closest to the eye place, and then reach for the second. There's a young man behind me who probably heard my diatribe.

This soul looks at me and says, "JC Penney doesn't open until 11."

BECAUSE OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DON'T.

I sigh, turn around, eyeball where my car is parked and think it can't possibly be that far to the next entrance.

Have I stated previously that my impulsiveness is probably an issue?

Yeah.

Found the next exit. Finished my business.

Then hiked half a mile back to my fucking car. In the heat. With this stupid hand binder on.

By this time, I have a lovely headache at the base of my neck, I'm sweating like I think it's a fun thing to do, and I'm cranky as shit.

I am peopled out, there were like ELEVEN of them, salty as Morton's, and could not give a fuck less about anything. 

My body hates me, I'm brain dead, and Murphy has started drafting "Missing" flyers for me.

Today, my darlings, looks to be a bit better.

One hopes.

I have so much to do as far as work, and I'm having the executive dysfunction hilarity, and I need to just do it.

Nike...don't sue me.

It's the last thing I need.