I am home from work today.
Spending the day in a haze of painkillers and skanky hos from Big Rich Texas (OMG RHONJ returns next week and between this and that I shall have my fill of crazy bitches. HUZZAH!) recovering from my bi-weekly session with Tim the Physiotherapist.
Or as I like to call him Tiny Lucifer.
Dude is like 5 foot tall and just out of nappies, but has the strength of a skanky reality TV ho lifting a car off a pair of Louboutin’s.
And I hurt like a motherfucker.
But, I concede, in the few weeks I have been seeing him, I am not up all night crying with pain and when he tapes my shoulders back – despite the agony – I totally look like that redhead in Mad Men.
It just just not conducive to TYPING or actually getting any work done.
And there is the whole face contorted in pain thing.
Anywhoo, I AM getting better, I am just discovering other areas that I was broken that were masked by the ratfucksonofabitch pain coming from my shoulder. And Tiny Lucifer is working on those until I threaten to punch him in the neck.
To which he giggles like a school girl cause we both know there is no way I am getting off that table without help.
Because of my tendency to stroke out – BTW yesterday was my second Strokeaversary of my second brain fart and no fucker bought me a donut to celebrate – and I am managing the inflammation with supermarket anti-inflammatories and curse words, it is going be a looooooong drawn out process but, hopefully, some time in the future I will be pain free.
And be able to lift my arms above my head so we can finally act out the scenes in Fifty Shades of Grey.*
Are all Physiotherapists fucking evil?
Have you ever put yourself through agony in the hope that the reward would be worth it?
Can someone come and mop my floors?
* fifty shades of my daughters grey matter all over the ceiling after reading that I am anticipating. Bwaaa haaaaa haaaa.