Notes From A Gimp

August 30. August 30.

I keep counting down the days until I get the accursed cast off my right arm. I’ve learned the only thing worse than the itch you can not scratch is the itch you can scratch. I fret over what kind of rubbed raw, red and bumpy mess my right forearm will resemble when it comes off. I have come up with several theories over what has caused my desire to scratch inside there. Perhaps mosquitoes have hatched eggs inside my cast and the bloodsuckers are growing big and strong in a protected never ending supply of nutrients. Or maybe on a hike I touched poison oak and I rubbed inside my cast which caused the allergic reaction, but that is unlikely as no other part of my body has the symptoms of poison oak. The likeliest scenario is I’ve been sweating inside the cast which has created a gnarly tub of discomfort which is itchy as… excuse me while I scratch.

         Before my injury I kidded myself into believing that if I shaved my belly hair, there would be a finely tuned six pack lurking underneath. Now I must tell myself if I shaved all the fat there would be washboard abs. Lack of activities you can do in dry environments with only your left hand has caused a lot of atrophy. But it allows the mind to roam free and wonder if there’s a reason atrophy is one spacebar from being a trophy. In the olden days was it a sign of prosperity to grow too bloated to plow the fields?

         But one of the greatest virtues of getting this cast off will be no longer having to answer what happened to my arm. Once and for all let it be known I did not break my wrist from excessive masturbation. It’s a no win situation when I tell people the truth that I broke a bone playing basketball they say, “You should come up with a better story.” When I tell them I broke it in a fight they never believe me. “If you were in a fight you’d get more beaten up than that.”

August 30. August 30.

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