I'D TITLE THIS ENTRY AFTER A MURDER CITY DEVILS ALBUM, BUT IT AIN'T APPLICABLE


Christ, the last fortnight or so has been rough.

October 29: Got in a car wreck, broke a rib, collapsed a lung, and spent the next three days in the hospital with a tube in my chest. My car is fucked.

November 1-present: Recuperation. I stayed with Sara at her folks' place for a week, doing very, very little. Since I came back to my own apartment, I haven't done much either. The doctor said I could go back to work no earlier than the 24th, and until then, I'm supposed to do nothing. I'm all for leisure, but having to spend most of the day sitting gets old. On top of that, my mobility is severely limited, my left arm isn't up to snuff (which is exceptionally shitty, since I'm left-handed), and doing simple things like tying my shoes or washing my hair are difficult and painful. To top it all off, I can't smoke. Yeah, I was trying to quit when the wreck happened, but I'd really like a cigarette now and then. Thankfully I can still drink, so drink I do. Alcohol is preferable to the codeine I was prescribed in many ways.

Today's the first day I haven't spent with Sara. Since the wreck happened, she's taken care of me non-stop, and I can't thank her enough. I'm at a point where I can get by without any help, but I'd rather have her company.

The worst thing about the car wreck isn't the physical damage I've sustained, but rather the financial and bureaucratic nightmare that's resulted. Not once, even when the doctor told me my lung had collapsed, did I think I was going to die; instead, I found myself thinking about the fact that my health insurance hadn't kicked in yet, and that I'd have to put up with all manners of bullshit from the hospital (who, to be fair, have given me a chance to pretty much waive my bills), the insurance company, lawyers, and so forth. I disgust myself by worrying more about fucking MONEY and RED TAPE than my own corporeal and spiritual status. Thankfully, though, the further back in time the accident moves, the less I care about anything related to it. The only thing that bothers me now is going in for my follow-up with the doctor, and going back to work.

There have been some good things to come out of the wreck. I've been able to do a lot of reading, buy some cheap BOC albums, hang out with my friends, and spend time with Sara. I've pretty much stopped smoking, too; I say "pretty much" because I know I'm going to have a cigarette once I'm told my lung is back in shape.

I guess I could say more, but I'm tired, and don't want to write anymore. I think it's back to my recliner, where I'll read more of Neal Stephenson's new novel and fall asleep.