"It's all for you, Damien."

Okay, let us sum up my current situations. But first, Disclaimer: I am currently medicated, so mind the gap.

The spawn of the Devil is currently residing within my gallbladder. I think he's put up shelves and hung some pictures. That hurtful little bastard thinks he's sticking around for a while. But I've got news for you, Damien. Come October, and with it my health insurance, eviction is inevitable.

I blew my knee out Monday night. I don't want to get too detailed, but if you're dying for an explanation you can Youtube a dance move titled "the cat daddy," and combine that with me in my kitchen at midnight, listening to some very uncat daddy tunes. But this time was far worse than any other knee blow out, so despite being uninsured for twelve more days, I hobbled to the ER for the second time in a month. Good grief. My doctor, who will henceforth be referred to as The Medical Man of My Dreams, was very kind and very sympathetic about my financial binds and blah blah blah, I'm having trouble maintain a thought long enough to complete its sentence... Anyway, I've now got a pair of crutches, two bottles of ibuprofen, and some pain killers, which will henceforth be referred to as My New Best Friends. And with the help of My New Best Friends, instead of having a wobbly knee that feels like a constant throb and stab, I now have a knee that feels as though it's perpetually in that weird state of when a body part falls asleep, but right before the little needles go to work to wake it back up. Am I making any sense here?

So I've been thinking . . . You ever see that Stephen King movie, Misery? Remember when Cathy Bates breaks his ankle so all he can do is lay in bed or write? Well, since I can't even get onto my bed (it's a loft and involves climbing a painter's ladder), and my book has gone missing (I'm trying my best not to flip out about that), all I have now is my computer. Perhaps the cat daddy is my Cathy Bates, and now I have no choice but write. Get it?

And now our favorite segment: More Things Chicago Has Taught Me:

• Don't take your book to a sports bar. The bartender will confiscate it.
• The Emergency Rooms in this city are far, far less terrifying in the middle of the day on a Tuesday than they are at midnight on the weekends.
• Not every park has tables. Plan your picnics wisely.
• Words words words. I can't think anymore.

Well, shoot. I can't write with My New Best Friends! Looks like it's just going to me, them, and all of these Boy Meets World reruns.