Black Dogs, in case you're joining us late, was and is my first novel. Like most first novels, I am both desperately embarrassed and desperately proud to have written it. It's cleaned up and edited and expanded from the volume some of you may have read on line--for example, the plot actually makes a bit more sense now!--and it's a pretty fun read, if not desperately deep or meaningful.
So I go to the gas station to fill one of my tires--not the one from last time, a different one--that James said looked a little low. I check for a pressure gauge. No gauge in the glove box. Apparently it wasn't there after all. Bugger.
So I go to the little mechanic's shop to ask if I can borrow theirs for a minute, and as seems to keep happening, my obvious lack of skill meant that somebody came and did it for me, despite my insistence that no, really, I can do it, I just need to make sure it doesn't blow up--oh, well, if you insist... no, I got to be this age without knowing how to care for my car not because I'm a congenital idiot, but because my husband did it, and...well... It's the south. Mechanics dispense free air and relationship advice in equal measure. Eventually you learn to accept these things as part of the social landscape, and smile when they suggest that if you ever need to talk or get an oil change to come on back, now.
Then I go to leave, step on a large rock, my ankle turns hard, and I go down like a ton of bricks.
I spent the first three minutes after I sat up trying to determine if my ankle was broken, because it hurt like mad, and I felt the bone go "clunk." Fortunately "clunk" is not "snap," the pain subsided, and I can walk on the bloody thing, so it appears to be okay, but I have a bone bruise like you wouldn't believe, and the side is excitingly puffy and swollen.
Plus I skinned both knees and abraded my palms, and I know from grim experience that skinned knees no longer heal the way they did when I was ten. Now the damn things stiffen up, I bruise like a member of the Russian royal family, and it leaves scars that I'll be trying to shave around for the next decade. Plus it's embarrassing. Skinning your knees is like chicken pox--it's just not a thing adults do.
Okay, my ankle's gettin' pretty painful--probably just stiff from sleeping, but still kinda swollen and definitely aching pretty good. I did elevate it during my nap, and I'll ice it down again, but it's hurting worse than it did shortly after the fall.
It's after five, and I'd hate to go to the emergency room for something this minor, but I'll call the doctor in the morning and see about getting it looked at.
Today's D&D session went badly when our Warforged (a big golemy type unique to Eberron) missed the rope to cross to another ship and fell about 200 feet into a particularly nasty and surreal area known as the Mournlands.
We had to set down to rescue him, and found ourselves fighting zombie chickens and walking through talking corn that was rhapsodizing about the glory of dying in battle. It was deeply surreal. We found our badly broken comrade and dragged him home, where hopefully he can be patched up.
To make matters worse, that talking shapechanger-hating sword my paladin is carrying around got riled up again, and made a try to take over his mind. Possibly I am the only paladin to ever put off "We must KILL THEM ALL! Give me your mind!" with "Yes, well, maybe when I'm not so busy, okay?" but whatever works...