The thrill of victory...

... the agony of the asphalt. Yesterday was quite the day in my life. I got my grades and had the thrill of receiving a "B" in Contacts, and the top "A" in Torts.

Celebration was, of course, necessary. And coming out of the neighborhood wine shop, I caught the toe of my shoe on a badly-repaired lip of the sidewalk, was flung into the street, and broke the joint of my left shoulder in at least four places.

My first internal reaction, as I heard much regretable crunching and popping, was, oh fuck, I've done it this time.

My first external reaction was, "No, I'll be okay" as the very kind man from the haberdashery shop asked if I wanted to come in and sit down for a moment.

Here's how bad it was: when he reiterated the offer, I accepted.

I have been known to rise from the ground wih severe whiplash and make my way home before admitting that I was hurt at all. Admitting that I am wounded is tough for me.

Nevertheless, I let him sit me down in his shop, give me water, but declined calling the Rescue Squad, until I was shaking so hard and hurting so bad that even I had to admit that this injury was real. He laughed at me: "You sound like a man! Stop being brave and let me call."

I had to let him. I was nauseated and in danger of passing out from the pain.

3 hours and a Vicodan later, I was looking at x-rays of the hamburger formerly known as my shoulder. It's ugly. The nausea came back.

I'm one very bad night's sleep away now. The pain is lessened - I'm not reduced to screaming at the slightest movement anymore - but one-handed typing sucks. 6 weeks of this - assuming I don't need surgery.

Good thing that we had already decided against the trip to Chicago.