I have never injured myself doing anything remotely cool. It’s always some kind of falling down, or tripping. Hurt by walking around—that’s how I do it.
And yes, I’m hurt again. And it’s just as stupid as any other time.
Let me begin by explaining that my cat plays with chenielle socks. She loves them, steals them, prompting us to give her a pair of her own. Why we own chenielle socks in the first place is beyond me. I can only guess that they were a present to C and she kept them around for cold nights and only really cared about them when the cat stole a pair.
Anyway. In our efforts to make the cat’s toys more entertaining, I shoved a small pill bottle in one of the socks. There was exactly one tiny pill left inside the bottle and I thought the cat would like the rattling noise that the sock made.
Also, the cat’s toys are commonly strewn across the living room floor.
Can you see where this is going? Bet you can.
I was running . . . wait. I don’t know if you could call that running. As Erika Lopez once said, I was running in my slow motion, D-cup kind of way from the kitchen into the living room. There was the sock, which I stupidly paid no mind. You can’t tell there is a bottle inside of it, you see. My foot comes down hard on it, I start to do a comical little roll and tilt backwards. My other foot comes down harder to right myself, but at a less than optimal angle. I have a bruise on the arch of my right foot and kind of twisted the ankle of the other.
C, however, didn’t know all of this was happening. She just saw me run (or kind of run) into the living, get wide-eyed, stomp twice, and scream OWWWW.
Why can’t I ever hurt myself doing cool things? I’m halfway expecting to slip on a banana peel next week.
