#bruisecruise

I'm aware my dude is a fantastical creature with a surfeit of bizarre and extraordinary talents, I guess it just never occurred to me to add DIY shoe repair to the list. Maybe we both have a bad habit of buying shitty secondhand shoes and he has developed better skills to deal with it than I do. Either way, I'm grateful. At least now I can walk into the House of Blues without looking like a total hobo. Never mind they probably have some size 6.5 women's boots hanging around in the bowels of that venue. Come on. How could they not? Surely I can't be the first chick to nearly destroy and abandon a pair of shoes there. My ribs are bruised, aching and altogether useless and i'm standing on one foot while appearing to stand on two. I'm a magician, I'm a ballerina. I'm not even remotely drunk yet. 

This whole episode, even prior to entering the club, is giving me pause to impose a heavy, retrograde stare on the entire year past. My ribs get cracked, my car gets hit. My ribs heal, my car gets fixed. My car gets fixed, my ribs get cracked again. My ribs are cracked, and I'm opening up a case of credit card fraud (again). Are my ancestors testing me? Do ancestors even do that? What the hell is going on?

Luckily without much further ado I'm sucked out of the world of recursive life-observation and into the world of Whatever the Fuck is Going on at the House of Blues. toxic, pumping house music so loud you can't hear the bands. chicks in acid washed denim shorts and comically oversized boots doing their Adderall and vodka-red bull dance at the podiums on either side of the stage. dude-bros and dude-chicks spilling beer all over each other in a developing pit of sorts. several hundred cubic feet of Hollister and Abercrombie about to be irreparably tarnished with sweat and liquor. these people came here to have a good time. but where did they come from? and who are they here to see. the answer appears to be: San Diego, and a giant inflated zebra on stage right. cool! 

So I spent the night leaning heavily on my right foot and pretending my other leg didn’t exist. To deviate from this adopted hip-slung bitch-stance would mean mortal pain. The nice thing was my mom was there so I was able to complain to her like a whiny baby and then she gave me presents. Because the really cool thing about all this great luck happening to me is that it's all going down in apparent memoriam of my anniversary of birth. happy birthday 2 me! 

I know what you’re asking yourself…how can one woman be so lucky??

 Well there’s no simple answer to that question. There are those out there whom I believe would attribute this recent series of injurious calamities to be karmic retribution for prior bad acts.

And to that I would say:

No man can eat fifty eggs.

also i would say that my mom is psychic. my mom is psychic and bought me slippers AND BROUGHT THEM TO THE HOUSE OF BLUES. which takes care of any concern i had about walking downhill with the nail from my boot jabbing me in the heel. i repeat: MY MOTHER IS PSYCHIC. SHE KNOWS. 

good luck / bad luck. it's a mixed bag. 

also have any of you ever gone to a show with your mom at the house of blues? did you mean to? how did it go? my mom is really nice and is now threatening to take me and my boyfriend to see Heart there in December. stay tuned for more hilarity. 

But I digress. Right now as I'm writing, I'm in the waiting room at Glendale Memorial Occupational, BECAUSE I FUCKING BRUISED MY RIBS AT WORK AGAIN. I AM MADE OF BIRD MATERIAL. and i'm watching the CGI fuckfest that is Maleficent (featuring the inimitable Angelina Jolie and her extra teeth, and cheekbones)-- alternately fixating on how cheaply I can obtain that lipstick she’s wearing, and how bad it fucking hurts to breathe.

 The most beautiful in this set of ironies (if I could pick just one), is that tonight is the night of my birthday party. Me and Stacy’s annual karaoke birthday party, that is; and it’s dawning on me that without possessing the ability to breathe properly—I doubt I will be able to sing. I guess I’m going to have to leave it to my rowdy friends and other event guests to entertain me while I try to remain stationary and drink scotch in a corner.

Scientifically and experientially speaking, Scotch is the only thing that relieves acute chest pain. Ask your dad. Ask ANY dad.

Also, depending on how I fare in this doctor’s examination, perhaps there will be some painkillers for me to not take at my party… so as not to like, induce further death. What a fun year I am having. God, I can not wait for it to be over.

Something akin to, but not entirely like, the birthday blues has been hovering over me like a treacherous fog for days. I don’t know what to attribute it to, other than the fact that I am still alive and therefore able to suffer and allow thoughts to erode my good time. It’s so great having a brain and emotions. I should be reimbursed for this. In drugs! Without having to injure myself at work first. 

And at the same time, it's hard not to laugh at all this ridiculous calamity, except for wait

it IS hard to laugh

because it fucking hurts my chest!