Oh, there you are

To quote Fiona Apple, "I've been a bad, bad girl". Oh, don't get your hopes up, no drugs or illicit affairs here. My body has just literally reached it's breaking point- as in I feel crippled. And I've got no one to blame but myself (and bad genes...so maybe not JUST myself, but mostly).

I inherited my mother and grandmother's disasterous knees, which, coupled with my disaserous weight is-you guessed it-a disasterous combonation. So much in fact that, after a night of drunken debauchery last Friday, during which I drank my body weight in vodka grapefruits and bottles of corona in a pair of strappy, sexy but completley without support sandals and, as a result, appear to have destroyed my left knee. So much that all day Saturday I was on the couch, literally in tears because every step felt like my cartilage had been replaced with thumbtacks. 400 tablets of aleve and hours spent with a heating pad eased the pain enough that I could walk around come Monday morning. Completley disgusted with myself, I heroically went for 12 minutes on the elliptical and 8 on the bycycle, which was a huge fucking mistake, because now I'm back to being crippled. I limped around work all day. MY cute dress-and-cardi outfit was ruined by the fact that I could only wear my running shoes. I have a new job that requires me to take stairs. The going-upstairs actually doesn't bother me at all, it's the going downstairs that makes me wish I had a piece of wood to clench between my teeth.

Plus, I'll admit it- I work with a bunch of skinny, corporate bitches and I feel like a dumpy lady-toad. I need to suffer through the pain this week because I'm waiting to get put on Dean's insurance, and then I pray to the Gods that I'll be given either a cortisone shot or a full fucking knee replacement. Even as I sit here on my uber-comfy couch typing these there are shoots of pain raidiating down my calf.

I talk a lot of shit. I talk shit about people that can't get it together with jobs, or relationships, or kids, or school, or drugs and drinking. But who am I to talk shit? I'm only 28, pushing 300 lbs and in so much pain I can hardley walk. Saturday adn Sunday I had horrifying visions of myself being the lady on a rascal or those annoying motorized carts in the grocery store. Or that when Dean and I go real estate hunting next year a two-story house will be out of the question because I'm to fucking fat to walk down the stairs. Or if I get pregnant and wind up on bedrest for 9 months because if I try and walk my body will just collapse in on itself like one of the twin towers.

I won't have it. I won't. I won't be the terrorist against myself. I won't be my own inside job.