he said someday things'll be better, i say i'm giving up 'cause i know everything sucks and this isn't going to be the last time you hear me complain.

ladies and gentleman! you are in for a treat...because i have a story for you!

alright, now that you're kind of hooked into reading the rest of this shit, even though this isn't going to be a fantastical story about anything in particular other than the standard story line of this blog which pretty much is "i'm a dumbass," let me start out by saying.....i'm a dumbass.

way back in may when yet another semi-truck decided to attempt to take my life from me [i swear the bitches have it out for me...swear], i walked away fairly okay aside from having a few cracked and bruised ribs...and by a few i mean i had three ribs, total, that were peachy fucking keen. it sucked, i couldn't do shit until things were adequately healed...which was about two and a half months...and walking my dog across the street pretty much had me leaning over trying my to catch my breath. basically, i was the equivalent of an eighty year old smoker with emphysema after more than ten paces. it was fun, i swear.

immediately after getting the okay to engage in fairly light physical activity from my doctor, i pretty much hauled ass to the nearest muy thai studio, signed up, and started going four times a week. in my own defense, i stayed away from sparring and stuck to bag work until my doctor said i'm free and clear. i got the "free and clear" in early september and giddily jumped into the proverbial ring with, my now friend, mick who is my sparring partner. now mick is about six-foot-three-inches and about two-hundred-twenty pounds of rock hardness. seriously, he's like a fucking wall. coincidently, he's now a bouncer at the bar i used to work for...how funny is that?

so anyway, mick and i get the joy of beating each other up four times a week in a teeny tiny little studio, while jeremy--the head honcho--gives us pointers on how to be mo' bettah, and despite his advantage of size over me, i do pretty well against him...and after about a week of me being myself [ie..shit talking, being a goofball, etc] he got the idea that he doesn't really have to go easy on me.

just to clarify, i don't really think he goes all out on my ass, but i can say that when he punches and kicks me it's with his full force and not some half ass "she's a girl!" bullshit. he doesn't throw me on the ground like i've seen him do to a few of the guys in the program, but he does still throw me down onto the ground.

so, we'll fast forward to last wednesday around three in the afternoon. mick and i are happily beating the shit out of each other, and at the end of practice, while i'm taking off my wrist wraps and talking to one of the other guys who trains when we do, mick decides it would be an awesome idea to come up behind me, pick me up, and flip me over onto the matt.

oops.

stupid me was shocked, and rather than staying still, i moved around like a goddamn fish out of water such that when i landed on the matt, i didn't land on my back like you're supposed to...nope, i landed on my side. rephrase..i landed on my arm, and then my side kind of crashed really unlithely into my arm. other than having the wind knocked out of me, i felt okay....but when i went ot the gym to do my cardio the next day, i noticed i was having trouble breathing. of course, i just dismissed that as my allergies being a fucker given the variation in temperature that's been going on lately. but, come saturday, i could barely walk up two flights of stairs without feeling like my lungs were completely null and void.

so, completely negating the fact that about five months ago i had the same feeling as a result of being man handled by a semi truck and having some fucked up ribs, i called up my doctor and told him i needed new allergy pills. at the appointment on monday he checks everything, says i'm not having difficulty breathing because of sinuses or anything of the sort...then does that creepy thing where they push on your ribs and shit, and i pretty much flew off the table the minute his hands brushed up against my ribs.

naturally, he looks at me like i'm fucking nuts, goes over to the chart, reads that i was here five months ago with some fucked up ribs, looks up at me, and with the utmost sincerity and seriousness says: "what in the world do you do to yourself that keeps bringing you here with bruised and cracked ribs?"

oh yes! i rock! i have three bruised ribs...how awesome is that? and i don't even have a cool, glory-wrought story to go with it, either. nope...all i have is mick feeling guilty and constantly calling me and asking if i need anything or what not, and a doctor who thinks i'm some kind of masochistic dolt...which i'm not so sure he's wrong about.

so how am i a dumbass you ask? simple. after my doctors appointment i went to the gym to run six miles...and tomorrow, i plan on going to practice.

you can't teach an old dog new tricks..and my trick has always been to suck it up and act like nothing is wrong.

yay!