Mymsie-khamun

I have a delightful habit of injuring myself in stressful situations. Like the time I was taking care of my Mom after her knee surgery and I broke my toe. Or when I was breaking up with Russ and got in a car accident. I like to think of it as nature’s reminder that I am, in fact, an incompetent boob. And so I should’ve known that here in Florida, under stressful circumstances, I would biff it or set myself on fire or something. I thought I’d paid my dues when I sliced my finger the day after I arrived. Little did I know that would soon be on par with a hangnail or paper cut.

It’s just that things aren’t going very well for my Dad. He seems to be healing nicely from his back surgery but he can barely get around and can’t really do anything for himself yet. Also his psychiatric meds are very, very messed up, which is so sad. As you can imagine, I haven’t been getting a great deal of sleep and I’m also sleeping in a bed I’m not used to. On Sunday in the wee hours of the morning, I fell out of bed and banged my head on a coffee table.

Doesn’t look too bad, huh? Let’s analyze the scene of the accident:

This is my Dad’s enclosed porch, where I’ve been sleeping on a sofa bed. The table you see is a tiled concrete slab perched on a box. Oh and that red stuff? That’s just the blood that splattered everywhere. No biggie. Wanna see the shirt I was wearing at the time?

Nice, huh?

The upshot is that I think I now have some sort of connection with the Egyptian underworld because the cut on my head looks like a backwards hieroglyph for the letter “m”:

Coincidence? I think not!