Cookies 'n' Cream 18, Peppermint 30: Snap
Title: Snap
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Cookies 'n' cream 18 (slip), peppermint 30 (cane), My Treat (Michael, on living with his illness.), malt (askingxalice's Thanksgiving sweet potato pie 6: all wrapped up), rainbow sprinkles (Michael), cherry (letter/first person/subject matter).
Word Count: 530
Rating: PG-13 for a lot of thoroughly justified swearing.
Summary: A letter to his sister that Michael never sent.
Notes: I'm a little nervous about this one, not having a debilitating physical condition myself. Please do call me on any fail you find, but I'd appreciate it if you were kind.
Dear Danny:
I broke my leg again last night. Don't make that face at me. I wasn't doing anything dangerous, it was just really fucking stupid. I was using my cane and everything, I swear, but I slipped on a patch of ice, and I landed wrong, and what can you do? So now I'm lying flat on my back, waiting for my tea to be ready. And since I have nothing better to do I naturally thought of writing to you.
You know what the doctor at the emergency room yesterday told me? "You should be more careful." Fucker, what the hell does he think I do every fucking day of my entire fucking life? God damn.
Uh, sorry, little bit of bitterness sneaking through there.
No, you know what? Fuck that. I am bitter. I'm allowed to be bitter, because I am so over this shit. I am so over being told to be careful. I am so over having to wrap myself in cotton wool just to stay alive from day to day. I'm done with this shit. Of course, it's not done with me, and you can't switch out your body, so no choice but to live with it.
Goddamn, though, people make it hard. You can say that for Mom, at least; she never made me feel like it was my fault when I broke myself (but then again, she made you feel like it was yours, so maybe that wasn't the best approach either). These people, I fall on the ice and they tell me not to go out in an ice storm. Well, how the fuck am I supposed to get groceries, then? They tell me not to walk everywhere. I can't afford to take taxis everywhere, and public transportation is just terrible for me. Someone steps on my foot, bam, three broken toes. No thanks, my medical bills are high enough as it is.
And the shit I get for using a cane. "You're too young for that." "Lose the cane, kid, you're not fooling anyone." "Get out of that seat, that's for handicapped people." People looking at me and sneering and thinking "what a jerk." Well guess what, fuckers, I am handicapped and I do need this shit. Just because I'm not old and it's not obvious doesn't mean it's not true.
Oh, and when I have the gall to say shit like this out loud? The looks I get! "Well, would you rather have never been born?" No, obviously I'd like to be alive, dumbass, but I'd also like to not have bones so fragile they shatter when you look at them funny. What the fuck is so wrong with that? Why do I have to be happy and cheerful and long-fucking-suffering all the time? Some days I just want to be mad, and it's like that's some kind of crime or something. I'm being ~negative~, horrors. I think I'm fucking entitled to be negative once in a while.
Fucking fuck. I just want to punch people sometimes. I would, if it wouldn't break my fingers. Why do people suck so hard, Danny?
Sometimes I really, really hate being me.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Cookies 'n' cream 18 (slip), peppermint 30 (cane), My Treat (Michael, on living with his illness.), malt (askingxalice's Thanksgiving sweet potato pie 6: all wrapped up), rainbow sprinkles (Michael), cherry (letter/first person/subject matter).
Word Count: 530
Rating: PG-13 for a lot of thoroughly justified swearing.
Summary: A letter to his sister that Michael never sent.
Notes: I'm a little nervous about this one, not having a debilitating physical condition myself. Please do call me on any fail you find, but I'd appreciate it if you were kind.
Dear Danny:
I broke my leg again last night. Don't make that face at me. I wasn't doing anything dangerous, it was just really fucking stupid. I was using my cane and everything, I swear, but I slipped on a patch of ice, and I landed wrong, and what can you do? So now I'm lying flat on my back, waiting for my tea to be ready. And since I have nothing better to do I naturally thought of writing to you.
You know what the doctor at the emergency room yesterday told me? "You should be more careful." Fucker, what the hell does he think I do every fucking day of my entire fucking life? God damn.
Uh, sorry, little bit of bitterness sneaking through there.
No, you know what? Fuck that. I am bitter. I'm allowed to be bitter, because I am so over this shit. I am so over being told to be careful. I am so over having to wrap myself in cotton wool just to stay alive from day to day. I'm done with this shit. Of course, it's not done with me, and you can't switch out your body, so no choice but to live with it.
Goddamn, though, people make it hard. You can say that for Mom, at least; she never made me feel like it was my fault when I broke myself (but then again, she made you feel like it was yours, so maybe that wasn't the best approach either). These people, I fall on the ice and they tell me not to go out in an ice storm. Well, how the fuck am I supposed to get groceries, then? They tell me not to walk everywhere. I can't afford to take taxis everywhere, and public transportation is just terrible for me. Someone steps on my foot, bam, three broken toes. No thanks, my medical bills are high enough as it is.
And the shit I get for using a cane. "You're too young for that." "Lose the cane, kid, you're not fooling anyone." "Get out of that seat, that's for handicapped people." People looking at me and sneering and thinking "what a jerk." Well guess what, fuckers, I am handicapped and I do need this shit. Just because I'm not old and it's not obvious doesn't mean it's not true.
Oh, and when I have the gall to say shit like this out loud? The looks I get! "Well, would you rather have never been born?" No, obviously I'd like to be alive, dumbass, but I'd also like to not have bones so fragile they shatter when you look at them funny. What the fuck is so wrong with that? Why do I have to be happy and cheerful and long-fucking-suffering all the time? Some days I just want to be mad, and it's like that's some kind of crime or something. I'm being ~negative~, horrors. I think I'm fucking entitled to be negative once in a while.
Fucking fuck. I just want to punch people sometimes. I would, if it wouldn't break my fingers. Why do people suck so hard, Danny?
Sometimes I really, really hate being me.