The appointment to determine whether or not I can get out of this brace is only twelve days away. No big deal, yeah? You can do anything for a mere twelve days, right? No biggie. It’s cool.
EXCEPT IT’S NOT COOL.
In twelve days it’ll be exactly six weeks in this asshole neck brace. I’ve been wearing the Strangle Choke model of Kill Me Now Neck Braces, Ltd. for over four weeks already.
SO TWELVE DAYS ISN’T LIKE A NORMAL TWELVE DAYS, YOU SEE.
I mean, it’s not like I’m in prime health, really just tip-top shape, just come from my regular afternoon meditation class, and was gently and politely asked to wear a hard cervical collar. For fun. Probably for a fundraiser. A something-a-thon. I mean, definitely a good cause thrown in there somewhere. Anyway. It’s not like that.
What I’m getting at is that zen, fundraising Sara can handle 12 days of whatever because, totally. But for Kill Me Now Sara, the actual number of days/hours/minutes she has left — well, she feels them eleventyhundredfold, at least. She’s ready to fucking snap, mostly because of the often heard (of late) phrase, (a jolly) “Only [number] more days!” Um, yeah, probably just don’t say that to me, ever, for crapsake. (I will fucking scratch your eyes out. I swear to god, I will kill you.)
Please do NOT attempt to adjust my perspective with reminders, and/or anecdotes of the “those-less-fortunate” variety. Do not expect to be able to reason with me about any of these self-absorbed melodramatics. I am beyond reason. I’m willfully unreasonable.
(I’m also probably just being a giant pussy about this because of the whole unreasonable thing. Maaaaaan, I hate that.)
But(!), could you please do your magic for twelve days, Internet? Just make it a little easier. OHGAHD, please.
What the shit do we do now?
I could never (ever) even wear a turtleneck before.
Oh, and this.