So I tried to kill myself twice on Tuesday. The first incident happened at work, where I bashed the ever-loving crap out of my left ankle on a pallet jack and scraped my wrist. The ankle hurt so bad I duct-taped an ice pack to it and just walked around like that for the rest of the day. (Too busy! No time for injuries!) The second happened later that night. The Best Roommate Ever and I were both in our beds, snuggled down to sleep, when I realized I had to pee and went down the stairs to the bathroom. For some reason unfathomable to me, I completely missed the bottom step. Just stepped off into space like it was perfectly natural. I slammed my arm into the doorknob, which gave me a fantastic bruise, and came down hard on my right ankle. I lay sprawled in the hallway, right across from BRE's door, trying to assess the damage. Nothing broken; everything I tried to wiggle wiggled. I heard BRE (jerked out of a sound sleep by some idiot falling flat on her face) say to me, "Are you ok?" "I'm fine," I replied, from my spot on the floor. "No, really." "No, no! I'm fine!" I lay there on the floor in the pitch black, wiggling my toes, and thought, 'This is comfy. Maybe I should just sleep here.' Then I realized. I still had to pee. Damn damn dammity damn.
My plan for Wednesday, mowing the lawn, was postponed until I could be trusted with a power tool with a big spinning blade on it.