Last night as I was rushing around, I slipped on some stairs and wrecked my left ankle. Actually, the ankle itself is okay; it’s the boney bit on the outer portion of the ankle that’s swollen. I’ve been icing, elevating, arnicating, advilating, and so forth, hoping that it’ll be decent enough to travel with tomorrow morning, when I get up before God can scratch his ass and complain about the garbage trucks. 3:30am! Wooo! How’s that for a wake-up time?

It’s better this morning, so I “ran” a very small errand down the street this morning with little problem. You see, I’ve figured out how to get my sword to France. It was the one thing that really pained me having to leave behind. So, I took it apart, put the hilt parts in a bubblewrap mailing envelope in my suitcase, packed the blade at the UPS store, and sent it Global Express with plenty of insurance at the post office for $35.00. The airlines can go fuck themselves — they wanted something like $128 + other fees for Gawd Fucking Knows What to bring it on the plane.

Suck it, airline bitches. You’ve made everyone’s lives a living hell because you don’t know how to profile for psychos.

But on the brighter side, I’m extremely excited. I can barely keep still with my foot like this, but maybe I “needed” something to make me sit and just think through what’s left. The Quirky Chick helped me take the car back to Walnut to put in storage in my other friend’s garage. After that, it’s just fine tuning my packing job and resting the foot. I think a nice bit of absinthe around 8:30pm will be the perfect way to get a little sleep. The alarm is set for 3:30am…

Someone has suggested to me that I write the American female version of A Year in Provence. This might actually be a fantastic idea for the humorous nonfiction writing market. An American Goth in Provence. I guess one thing at a time: getting there!

Next time I write, it’ll be from the other side…