Roy Spivey, v. 2
It wouldn't be summer if I didn't get myself into some kind of freak accident, would it. The very morning I thought to myself, "wow, it's been almost a year since I've been to the emergency room," I mangled two fingers on my right hand. How did I accomplish this? Let me tell you. I was lifting weights in the weight room and alternating between those back/tricep extension thingies and push-ups, and I was smart enough to place the 20-lb dumbbell (a round one, mind you, not one of those octagonal ones) on the bench while I was doing push-ups right next to the bench, and the mother fucker rolled off and fell directly on my hand and left two disgusting gashes. Yes, it hurt. It happened so fast that I didn't realize what was happening until blood was pouring down my hand. And seeing as I LOVE unwanted attention, I did everything I could to wrap my hand up quietly and run downstairs and try (unsuccessfully) to get the bleeding to stop.
Because I'm a cheapass I didn't go to the ER. I ain't payin' no $1,000+ in out-of-pocket costs, AGAIN! In retrospect, probably a dumb thing. But Swati was nice enough to look at my hand and apply her doctor skills to bandage it up and make sure it wasn't fractured or broken. I'm a little disturbed because the gashes still look kind of hideous, 3 days later, and my index finger still hurts like hell when I bend it the wrong way. But what the fuck would the ER doctor have done anyway, other than exactly what Swati did, and maybe put it in a splint? If it's fractured, it's fractured. There's not much they can do. And if there's a scar, so what? It's just my hand. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
So yes, I'm just a mess right now -- I have these sexy, totally -- what's the opposite of inconspicuous? spicuous? -- bandaids on my hand, I definitely can't swim or lift weights or do anything other than spin, really, I'm still hacking and all congested, I'm having some kind of allergic reaction to this new lotion I tried, and I still can't really run because my foot is all fucked up. How old am I, again? Christ. It makes me feel for my mom and her myriad health problems.
And, my job sucks. Shit, something has got to happen really, really soon.
Edit -- I see that a side effect of insomnia is RANK STUPIDITY. Yes, I know the opposite of "inconspicuous" is "CONspicuous." I could say that this was my attempt at humor, but really, I'm obviously not 100% with it these days. I hope this isn't reflected in my actual work product (though I re-read a brief I wrote on Monday and found about 4 or 5 errors. Ugh. Cringe. It's a good thing judges don't have time to read things carefully).
I'm also beginning to suspect that the Roy Spivey mystery has no answer because her description of this person may be somewhat ironic, sort of a slap at idiots like me who have an inexplicable fascination with celebrities? Though, the tone of her story was actually self-effacing because she did derive so much strength or fascination or whatever you want to call it with her special connection with a celebrity.