Here's the funny thing about writing a blog; if I haven't resolved it into story form yet, it's just miserable to write. Resolving it into the form of a story means that I'm already past the trauma-drama of the episode. It's all in the past and it's all good.
And so goes the story of "Georgia 2008". I started writing the post back in June of this year, and left you ever so rudely hanging in climatic pergatory. But here's the reason why. I HATE that fucking story. So I just stopped writing all together, what with my delicate artistic psyche feeling all off kilter, and what-not.
Hence the question "why did I start writing it at all"? Well, frankly, it was all because of that friend Zen of mine. He harps on me constantly to write. "Don't you have a blog to write?" he says. "You should tell the Georgia story" he prods.
When I tell Zen I have no interest in writing the Georgia story, he tells me it's because I'm still mad at someone over it. To this I say "BULLSHIT". Zen chuckles knowingly. That bastard. He says I still hold a grudge over it.
So here's a quick synopsis and then let's never speak of it again.
There was a knock on the cabin door at 7:30 in the morning and it really freaked my kids out. They started calling for me, and I was so tired I barely even knew where I was. As I stumbled down the wooden staircase, I was fine. Except for that one errant step that went off to the left away from the rest.
I missed the lone step, landed on my left foot and turned that ankle out, tried to catch myself on my right foot, which then also turned, all of it against a hard wood floor. I can still feel it today like it was yesterday, it makes me sick. Long story short, I broke both my feet and had to leave on a stretcher. I literally heard them "snap". I didn't want to scream because I didn't want to scare the boys, so I kinda whisper screamed, a very interesting mommy noise indeed.
I managed to drive us home from Georgia with just light settings, and it was the most traumatic trip the boys and I ever took. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it. I ended up in a wheelchair for a week, and in casts for almost three months. Not to mention gaining 30 pounds not moving around for three months. That shit alone just really pisses me off.
So who was at the door? Well, it was the lady we were renting the cabin from. My mother, who was dog sitting, was worried because she couldn't reach me on my cell phone. She hadn't spoken to us since the day before. Three times the day before. And it was only 7:30 in the morning.
Zen said I stopped writing because I was secretly angry at my mother. That is just so absurd, so ridiculous, right?
I hate that Zen guy, all up in my head, picking at my brain. He's so fucking annoying in general. But regardless of all that, there you have it.
