Playing Footy

I went back to the doctor last night, seeing as my foot was still bleeding, which I knew couldn't be a good sign 4 days later. The doctor was different from the first one I'd seen. He was a Santa-like figure whose jolly beard and portly middle instantly put me at ease. Well, put me at ease until he told me my foot was INFECTED and the wound wasn't at all closed.

So, yeah, apparently there will be no walking in 2009. I'm supposed to really stay off of it if I want it to close up, especially cause it's in the most awkward place ever--right where the foot bends. This means that when I walk into my 2pm interview with a temp agency today, I'll have to find a clever way to explain why I'm dragging my foot much in the manner of Quasimodo. I may even suck it up and force myself to walk normally, since, you know, no one hires the disabled.

I'm way over the Swede, seeing as nothing good can come of stressing over someone who clearly doesn't appreciate the goodness that is the blacktress. Unfortunately, this means he'll have to be deleted from Facebook, because reminders of my transgression--and his rejection--aren't what I need when I'm trying to write witty wall posts consisting of inside jokes about things that happened hours earlier.

I think what I most need to shake off is feeling so lonely. I wish I had someone who could come over and hang out, just chat with me while I'm sitting around. Or I wish I was on the same time zone as my friends so that we could g-chat all day long and I'd maybe forget that I'm on the road to becoming a goddamn amputee. For some reason, since the incident, I've become addicted to the TV show "How I Met Your Mother," and it's the only highlight of my day. I think it's mostly because, after watching most of my Buffy DVDs, I need more Alyson Hannigan in my life and just try and pretend she's still a lesbian witch.

I just feel like I am spending my time in this city just wasting money on rent for a place that isn't so great and not doing much else. I feel like James Caan in Misery, and the city of Sydney is like Kathy Bates, torturing me into staying with her even though I must get out to see my daughter. I'm trying to save for trips, then I have to run to the medical centre every ten seconds and pay out of pocket cause, you know, "I'm not a citizen," or whatever the surly lady is trying to explain to me through my grumbling as I look for my credit card.

Okay, guys, this can't be my life. I've got to get it together in 2009. Maybe I should use this immobilization period to write a major novel, or a screenplay.

Or maybe I should just chat with every single person on OasisActive.com until I get one of them to wire me all the money in their bank account as part of a sham marriage (I'll say I'm a Nigerian prince, of course).