Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Monday, January 27, 2003


Superjuiced on what can only be called Lortab with Extra Testosterone, the day is a smoodge brighter.

Finally saw someone about the fall. Woman took one peek at my shoulder. "Ew. Ow. I am NOT touching this until we get xrays."

My kind of doc.

For those of you familiar with injury proceedings and the joy of xrays (which inevitably mean you have to move whatever is hurt into the most uncomfortable positions imaginable, ie, hurt enough to make Mother Teresa say Very Bad Things), you know that their main usage is in determining broken bones.

The muscle tears (by which I mean Many) were easily visible on the film. Joint was back in place by this point, but yowsa. If it's in my shoulder, it's either torn, inflamed, or both.

I have orders for small range of motion exercises -- ONLY, and I mean ONLY with Lortab with Testosterone in my system -- and a follow-up in a week to make sure the RSD isn't dinking with the healing and causing the muscles to start cratering on me.

Whoa. Spaced out there. That's it, I'm puttin the Pooka to bed.

Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

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