'Round these parts, we pronounce it, "Er."

...so anyway, leg was a punkass all Friday. Late Friday night had a little episode in which I was writhing around on the living room floor like Mr Orange. This was repeated on Saturday afternoon, at which point Mom, on a break from goddamn tennis oh God I hate tennis so much, wandered out in her unbelievably annoying deafness and saw me with the weeping and the writhing and said, very gently, "Why don't you let me drive you to the ER?" So you know it looked bad. She never offers to drive. Shoved book, brace thing, and Muscat Teddy (Custard) into a bag and fucked off to the hospital.

Long story short: I have tendonitis. I am not taking enough ibuprofin and don't know how to wrap a leg properly. Taught about the miracle of the ice bag. Ice bag taken away because I liked it too much and they feared frostbite. No, they will not give me heroin even though I have Blue Cross. Referred to Dr Larry "The Unholy Incompetent Butcher Who Likes Saws" Miller for follow-up. Or Milton. Possibly Milhouse.

Emergency rooms are (a) very cold and (b) like one of the really crappy boring educational rides at Epcot. You know - the ones where they don't try too hard with the gift shop at the end, because, what's the point?

Got a plastic wristband out of the whole thing, though, so it was a bit like Pleasure Island. A bit.