The featured chunks were smuggled out of the operating room by my handy sibling, Tidy. Tidy was lucky to get them. Apparently ankle chunks, even those as rare and beautiful as mine, are considered a biohazard or a terrorist threat and are usually incinerated or imprisoned without representation.
Greetings, earthlings. At last I return from my home planet, the Planet Obstreperon. I’ve got so much news I can’t fit any of it in here. Except for this:
I am changing my name back to Zubik.
Oh, and behold, pictured above, three of the seven chunks of interstellar space-rock extracted at great expense, in terms of both cash and piteous suffering, from the Twisty ankle last Tuesday (yes, I will be selling them on eBay). My handy sibling Tidy witnessed the surgery personally and remarked that the indifferent violence with which my surgeon brutalized my defenseless joint was breathtaking. Tidy further described the scene as strikingly gory; bloody sluice from my besieged ankle was apparently surging across the O.R. floor to such a delugical extent that the anesthesiologist, positioned way down at my slack-jawed head, was moved to ask for a canoe. Or perhaps it was a towel.
While she was at it, she (my surgeon) decided to reconstruct a couple of ligaments that had, sadly, lost their youthful vim, with the result that I will be forced to wear a gargantuan* velcro boot-cast and remain unable to bear any weight—not even with the limpiest of hobbles—on the affected (or, as orthopedic surgeons like to call it, “involved”) limb for the foreseeable future. The foot is swole up to twice its original size and looks hideous, so I spend all day staring at it.
It smarts a bit, too.
After some consideration, I find that I cannot recommend spending any amount of time whatsoever balancing on one foot. The strain begins to show in the face, and is unseemly.
*Roughly the size of Guam, or Gargantua