Old Wounds

Bodies are so strange. I mean, really. I now live in a third-floor walk-up and between moving and the regular comings-and-goings of everyday life, I must've been up and down those stairs at least 100 times in the last three weeks.

And was there even a twinge in my left knee? The left knee that got slightly banged up after yours truly was hit by a car four years ago and flopped into the middle of Beverly Blvd. like a grounded flounder? Nope, nothing.

And so now you can imagine my irritation that it's now KILLING me and I have done nothing to aggravate it whatsoever.

It must be about to rain or something. I mean, really. Stairs- nothing. Humidity- I crumble. What sense does that make? I can run in the Olympics but I'm also relegated to turning into Karen from Mean Girls, able to tell whether or not it's going to rain by my boobs.


Erm, in case you were wondering- there's an 80% chance it's already raining.