(Plastic surgeon says I’ll look as good as new eventually. He also says he can stop the ‘craziness’ that is my forehead wrinkle. I think I love him.)
I’m sitting on the couch listening to a playlist inhabited by some of my favorite melancholy lyrical friends, alternately chatting with FB friends, importing contact lists into the company’s email client, perusing Pinterest pictures. A stray sugar wafer intermittently finds its way into my mouth. A week ago at this time, I was in the emergency room jacked up on VERY GOOD PAIN KILLERS to address the second degree burns I inflicted on myself with some scalding tea. (Note to self: probably you don’t need to BOIL the fucking water to get a decent cup of tea AND ALWAYS put the lid on.)
(Oh, how I want to post pics of the blisters. They were amazing from a cool, science ‘Hey watch my skin jiggle like a waterbed’ sort of way.)
I didn’t want to call 9-1-1 because I have no health insurance, remember? When I finally got a hold of my ex, he told me to call. It makes sense now: my descent into shock, trying to keep it together with my three kids starting to panic because I was crying and screaming ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!!’ from the bathroom, the fact that the skin on my entire right thigh was melting off like some picture of a thermonuclear radiation burn. He came and got the kids and we’ve done of debriefing on how scary it was for them. My glorious and amazing sister came and joined me in the hospital and ran interference for me there. Her family helped me through the worst of the days–moral support if nothing else. My ex covered the kids to give me some time to heal.
There are surely better reasons to have the attention of that many good looking men in one’s bedroom (read that without me sounding like a raging nympho), a fact I may have mentioned to them all once the IV Fentanyl (?) kicked in.
I love Fentanyl. And Percocet, it turns out.