Complete Series Marathon
Hello, everybody! Welcome back to your weekly report from Casa Schrader — it’s been a dazzling week, alright. Big, big changes around here. Big.
Yeah, not really. Same old, same old. The wife is hounding me (shocker!) to get out of the house more. Not sure what she wants. I mean, I started the blog again at her kind request/incessant hectoring. But no, now I have to venture out into the “real” world. That’s why she got me that loser’s throne of a wheelchair. She keeps talking the sad ass consolation prize up, emphasizing how it’s a “mobility aid.” She’s all over those disability rights websites these days. So, now we’re not allowed to say things like “wheelchair bound” because that implies the damn thing is limiting. Heaven forbid. See, apparently, the wheelchair is really all about being unlimited. Similar to a bird… perhaps a panther… or maybe some other naturally wheeled wonder of the animal kingdom.
Yeah, okay, that’s cool. I get it. It’s a useful tool. Like scissors, or a belt sander, or a Fleshlight. Now, why don’t you shut the hell up about it already? Chrissakes.
Maybe that’s why my wife seems to think she’s invisible lately. I don’t know, Honey, could it have anything to do with the incessant rah-rah bullshit you’ve been peddling these days. I get it, someone’s got to be the cheerful one, and maybe I’m not Mr. Happy these days. But if I hear the words “useful tool” one more time, I may just have to find another useful tool to bash my head in. Because after you hear “you’ve been given the gift of mobility!” for the eleventy millionth time, the sweet release of death looks pretty peachy.
You know what else are useful tools? Functional legs. I’m sorry, but I can’t just jump on the happy cripple bandwagon just because everyone around me is trying to be Polly-freaking-anna all the time. I get it. For a lot of people, wheelchairs are a godsend. I know for my nephew, his crutches are what keep him independent. And that’s great. Hey, maybe one day that’ll even be me. You know, when my morning bacon pulls itself up off my plate and flaps away.
My goal is to walk. Otherwise, what is the point of the Spanish Inquisition visiting me every day for a couple hours? Yeah, I’ll probably use the wheelchair at some point, just to get out of this godforsaken purple hellhole I call a bedroom. In fact, I used to imagine one day I’d tool around on one of those little Rascal scooters. Too fat and lazy to walk, loving life — that was the dream. The reality? Not so much. So for now, I’m gonna wallow a bit. Forgive me for being pissed about my “situation.”
Of course, I am walking these days. From the living room to the bedroom in under an hour! Chuck, my torture consultant/physical therapist says I’m really “kicking ass.” Wow, thanks Buddy. I mean, kicking ass felt a lot different before I got shot. Back then, it meant I kicked actual ass — usually the ass of some slobbering junkie dickbag. Now it’s sweating my balls off so I can get the last three feet to the bed. Small victories, he keeps telling me. Always was a fan of resounding victories myself. Love a good shut out. But no, my shitbucket legs are winning this particular round.
In other small victories, I got a new shipment of minerals the other day, including… my magnetite! That’s right — smacked Mr. Hard-On-for-Magnetite down good. Looks like Ol’ Special Needs here’s got a fun week of cataloguing and sorting! My life — it really makes the average man jealous, I know.