She goes on and on about Mercury retrograde this month and no mention whatsoever that I was going to break my foot today, dancing a stupid Tarantella at my ballet class. I've always hated that stupid Tarantella. George Balanchine, my ass. Or I should say, my foot. It's not like I was doing a triple axle combination pirouette a la Nureyev. I was just doing these stupid little jumps.
It hurts like a mother, mind you. It's sapphire blue. And swollen like a blue corn tamale. Can't walk too well.
I saw the X-rays (I must say, my bones are gorgeous. Very dainty.) I can clearly see the fifth metatarsal bone is broken, snapped like one of those Italian grisini bread sticks.
I've heard reports of other sundry accidents today: someone falling down the stairs, someone falling on the street. And as I write this, the light bulb of my desk lamp just gave out. Looks like there must be an eclipse on Planet Pish, or a conjunction of the two most evil planets (one of them has got to be Uranus). As you can see, this foot breakage has also rendered me incredibly puerile.
I don't care. I've decided I'm gonna spoil myself rotten (which in my case means unlimited guzzling of comfort food). But then, who knows when I will be able to exercise again.
I'm no Susan Miller, but I can tell you exactly what my future looks like: It looks like I'm gonna become the size of Moby Dick just in time for the Summer.
So much for ballet!
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