Oh, the bitter painful irony

So it's like this. Last night I was going to go get a Father's Day card because I've GOT to get one in the mail so I don't have to buy a $15 stamp like I did for Mother's Day. I was in a pretty rotten mood from the day in general and had a trash bag to get rid of. I'm angrily running down the stairs when I notice I'm tripping. And I thought, "Oh. I'm tripping. I might ought to catch hold of the rail." What followed was rather akin to so many POV shots of Don Knotts rolling down a hill in a barrel. Then I hear someone screaming like a little girl and realize it's me. I look down. I don't see any actual bone sticking out of any actual skin so I'm okay.

"Crap, my shoes are scuffed and ruined. CRAP! I'm wearing my most favorite prettiest green shirt ever! I don't see any rips or holes. Dang this hurts. Maybe if I fuss a bit my husband will hear me even though he's shut up in the bedroom with a presumed migraine."

I hear a door open. Thank goodness. He's heard me. Nope. The gal who lives upstairs has heard me. Now I feel like a jackass. I get up and do a Don Knotts snort assuring her I'm fine. I stagger up the very jagged, rocky, pointy stairs that I just fell down. I come inside, angry as all getout at what has been the perfect end to a perfectly miserable day and just let loose. I'm bawling. Yeah, it hurt. Yeah, it was frustrating. But more than that it was the perfect excuse to let off a bit of steam.

I notice my dark grey pants are now striped in the shins which can only mean I'm bleeding. I have more bruises than I can count and scrapes all up and down my shins plus a nice divot missing from just under my right knee.

Then, some 20 hours later I'm laying in bed in pain with some nasty wounds, frustrated I can't sleep on my stomach, which is how I kinda have to sleep. It hurts to walk. I can't really get comfortable. Blah blah blah. My life sucks.

While I'm doing this I'm watching The War, the Ken Burns WWII flick. I'm listening to guys tell stories about sharing one can of salmon among 35 men, marching for 7 days straight with no food and just a taste of water, friends being blown to bits, having to try to sleep with the moans and ravings of a dying comrade in your ears.

What right do I have to feel sorry for myself? I fell down a friggin flight of stairs. I skinned my knee. I have a pretty cush life, even if I do have an owie.

(Is there some sort of award for working Don Knotts into one blog post twice?)