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Whining ahoy
Today is a Socialized Health Care Envy day.
Ow, ow, ow, ow. My left wrist hurts. A lot. It started hurting Sunday (when I woke up - kind of like the time I strained my MCL sitting on the couch - my joints hate me. A lot.) and has continued to hurt. My new job, which involves heavy lifting and no health care, probably hasn't improved the situation. Tonight I wore a brace for my entire shift, and either the brace made it worse, or it got worse on its own, because by the end of the night it hurt to put my hand through my sweatshirt sleeve. It doesn't hurt all the time, of course; just when I flex it or put pressure of any kind on my hand. Or type, or when the gods are angered. As far as I can tell.
The thing is, it's suddenly occurred to me that there might be an explanation for this beyond 'my joints hate me,' one that I could actually have some sort of clue about. See, this has happened before; when I was twelve, my right wrist hurt a lot, persistently, made it hard to write, made it *really* hard to play summer rec volleyball, and when I finally convinced my mom to take me to a doctor, he diagnosed a ganglion cyst, and I had surgery to remove it. There isn't a big obvious lump in the back of my left wrist at the moment, but everything else is pretty much the same. So it's too damn bad I can't do anything about it, including not go to work, since a) I need the money and b) they'll never make me full time/offer me health care if I have, e.g., a shitty attendance record. And I'm pretty sure I get automatically fired if I'm absent for any reason twice more in the next two months. And I really don't want to go work at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
So. Owwwww.
And, to continue the whining theme: the plot dingoes are seriously lying down on the job.
And I have to go back and do rewrites in this already-tricky scene I'm writing.
And I still don't want to do my laundry, but I'll probably just deal with that by continuing to not do it.
God, I'm boring myself. Time for bed.
Ow, ow, ow, ow. My left wrist hurts. A lot. It started hurting Sunday (when I woke up - kind of like the time I strained my MCL sitting on the couch - my joints hate me. A lot.) and has continued to hurt. My new job, which involves heavy lifting and no health care, probably hasn't improved the situation. Tonight I wore a brace for my entire shift, and either the brace made it worse, or it got worse on its own, because by the end of the night it hurt to put my hand through my sweatshirt sleeve. It doesn't hurt all the time, of course; just when I flex it or put pressure of any kind on my hand. Or type, or when the gods are angered. As far as I can tell.
The thing is, it's suddenly occurred to me that there might be an explanation for this beyond 'my joints hate me,' one that I could actually have some sort of clue about. See, this has happened before; when I was twelve, my right wrist hurt a lot, persistently, made it hard to write, made it *really* hard to play summer rec volleyball, and when I finally convinced my mom to take me to a doctor, he diagnosed a ganglion cyst, and I had surgery to remove it. There isn't a big obvious lump in the back of my left wrist at the moment, but everything else is pretty much the same. So it's too damn bad I can't do anything about it, including not go to work, since a) I need the money and b) they'll never make me full time/offer me health care if I have, e.g., a shitty attendance record. And I'm pretty sure I get automatically fired if I'm absent for any reason twice more in the next two months. And I really don't want to go work at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
So. Owwwww.
And, to continue the whining theme: the plot dingoes are seriously lying down on the job.
And I have to go back and do rewrites in this already-tricky scene I'm writing.
And I still don't want to do my laundry, but I'll probably just deal with that by continuing to not do it.
God, I'm boring myself. Time for bed.