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Call me Barbaro


It's the long, slow decline. I'm hoverround bound and down. An iron lung is next, I'm sure. Then a .22 in the back of the head, a big fire and darkness. I fell down the stairs in front of my office yesterday. My right leg forgot what it was supposed to be doing and decided it wanted to take a nap or play Nintendo or something and I went ass over teakettle down ten or fifteen stairs. I had no reason to think my leg would collapse. I do have problems with my foot flopping every now and then but if I pay any attention at all I won't trip. This wasn't a trip. This was a collapse. One of the people I was with asked if I had diabeeetus. Couple of them said they thought I had had a seizure. I did not. I'm old and broken and no one likes me. Now my legs aren't even talking to me. I'm one humiliating event away from becoming a supervillian. LAMEMAN! The LAMER! DEADLEG! BROKEDOWNOLBASTARD! CREEPYOLDGUYINTHEPOWERSCOOTER! WALMARTGREETERMAN! I'm going to watch the world burn. Well, I'll probably burn too, since I can't run away, so maybe I'll just watch the world tan or something. Whatever, I'll quip entertainingly while it does it. Maybe I'll just get morbidly obese. My useless limbs will grow together and I'll end up like Jabba the Hutt. I wonder if maddmom would strangle me if I made her wear a metal bikini again? Take care of your back kids, you only get one.
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