Last Thursday morning, I was in a car accident. Don’t worry – the Honda’s fine – or, at least she will be after the other guy’s insurance pays for a new $750 bumper. Do you know what this means? I am losing my bumper stickers. All of them. No more “FRESH BEER.” No more “VIVA NASHVEGAS: EAT MORE RHINESTONES.”
This is probably for the best.
While my car will be spiffed up in no time, I am suffering the effects of whiplash. My lash was whipped. I am stiff and sore, and can barely turn to the left to check my blind spot when I drive. I don’t even want to think about what further calamity this could lead to for the Honda.
But you can’t keep a badass down, and on Sunday, I walked a grand total of 17 miles – a 9 mile hike south of the city, and then an 8 mile walk back in Denver. When I finally got home, with the force attainable only by a girl who had just walked 17 miles, I stubbed my toe on the couch. I stubbed it so hard, so mightily, that I thought I was going to pass out from the pain.
It didn’t take long to figure out that my toe – the same one that I broke back in January – is blasted to smithereens. I won’t go into the dirty details, but let’s just say that it’s swollen beyond recognition (I’m sorry, are you a toe?), and black, and the bruising wraps around to the bottom of my foot, spidering its way up the ball.
Sorry. Maybe those were the dirty details.
So that brings us up to the present moment: ice on my foot, heat on my neck, wishing for whiskey.
In other news, look what happened to my sister. She’s always getting picked up by guys.