27 May 2006

16,000 feet, or why I'm going to hell

I know, the picture quality sucks and I'm blurry and I'm not sure whether that's the camera or me. Probably me, because all the pictures looked like that.

From now on, the tag on the posts may or may not say Frarochvia, but it'll always be me unless the postee says otherwise. I sold my computer this morning and uploading pictures to the blog through Benkei the Sidekick requires machinations. Meh.

But I promise to persevere with the blog nonetheless because I love you guys and I love blogging and I hope you like reading what I have to say, even if it isn't all that exciting or knittastic.

As of 2:37 pm this afternoon, I fulfilled my goal: I mailed every last box to the post office. Which was good because I was wearing out my welcome there. Sighs became eyerolls and comments on the size and quantity of my visits. Ok and the boxes. But more importantly, I was thrilled to meet my goal because the post office closes at 3 pm! And I could not mail any boxes between 3 pm Saturday and 7 am Tuesday, of course. I had nightmares of being forced to play Survior with my boxes.

The walk home from the post office, well. My elatement quickly morphed into a grim march stagger as my foot became feet became feet feet feet feet and feet and suddenly I had 16,000 feet. And every last one of them hurt. O how they all screamed and sobbed as I lifted them, as I stepped down, as I -horrors- lifted again. I felt like the little mermaid, lurchingly waddling as I cursed myself for the usage of these feet. A posse of motorcycles passed by, and I wanted to get on one of them, just to go home that much faster. My eyes gazed upon each taxicab that passed by longingly as my lower back burned and my calves became overcooked meatloaf, tough yet crumbly at the same time. People stared at me as I staggered by grimply. By which I mean gimpily and grimly.

I stopped by Panera because I realized I was starving and had nothing to eat at home and the odds of my surviving a trip to the Whole Foods grocery store was nil. Then I walked out, and walked past a girl who'd just had one leg amputated below the knee and the other one in pins. And I should have felt grateful for my 16,000 feet and their choir, but the truth is I just wanted her wheelchair. I'm going to hell for having thought that.

Somehow I made it home, in a haze of pain and longing for anything with wheels. I took pills that may or may not be Canadian and the 16,000 seem to have thinned their ranks some.

That terrible picture above? That's me and saran wrap. I mean, Picasso. I keep calling him my saran wrap because ever since baba and Matisse left yesterday, he's been hyperclingy and superneedy, and I realized yesterday morning was the first time in his life he'd been totally alone. He was born in a kitty foster home and I adopted him into a pre-existing 2 catchen home 2 years ago, so. It was very strange for me to see a normally 100% happy and cheerful catchen be sad, clingy, and crying. Poor little guy... Poor saran wrap.

I wish I could post progress pictures of the oceanic scarf but I have done, you know, maybe 10 rows since Wednesday? Definitely time for a knitbreak tonight.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Your pictures may be blurry because you push the button instead of squeezing it. The camera/phone musy stay still.

5:06 PM  
Anonymous Dave Daniels said...

Good luck wiht the rest of the move. My heart goes out to you. I know all the troubles, stares and anguish. Keep a close eye on Saran Wrap.

5:37 PM  
Blogger Chris said...

I'm glad you got everything mailed in the nick of time! But oh ow oh ow - my calves twinge in sympathy...

Poor Picasso. *hug* for clingy kitty. *hug* for frazzled you!!!

12:20 AM  
Blogger Tiphanie said...

Poor Saran Wrap. Poor you! Just think- in 10-15 years this experience will be but a dim memory.

2:14 PM  

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