Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I'm part dead.
It's true. Maybe it was always true, what with this anthracite heart o' mine and my mechanical brain, but now it's medical fact and not just poetry. I've had the Achilles tendon from a cadaver screwed into my knee. The idea was to replace the busted graft that once replaced my busted anterior cruciate ligament.
How did I get to be in such a state? Well, alcohol played its role, of course. Suffice to say, in moments of revelry I made my leg bones do things they were never meant to do, and my ACL, the bitchiest prima donna of all ligaments, simply fucked off to its trailer, unable to cope with the scene.
The rehab following the surgical repair job is a well-documented pain in the arse, and I certainly can't be the first to attempt a complaint in public. That said, this is my THIRD time attempting to recover from such medical carpentry, so why not let my sense of personal entitlement run amok?
I want super powers: super, dead leg-bits powers.
For instance; maybe I get to shout, "corpse leg!" and give someone a little kick. Then the screen goes black, little skulls fly out of my knee, and the person drops into the fetal position. Or perhaps, being part dead, I could simply gain the ability to communicate with the dead.
Don't get me wrong here, I wouldn't want to talk to "souls who have crossed over" or anything the would confer great responsibility. I'd be content with the ability to converse with dead things. It would be an extension of my tendency to yell at inanimate objects.
The point, humble reader, is to come away from this experience more than somewhat improved. I've had it up to here with life's pitfalls making me wiser. I want to come away drunk with absurd powers. More than having something to show for my troubles, I want to have something I can show off at parties.