Updated: Went to the ER this morning. Explained the situation. They wrote, “Stabbed by chicken,” on my chart. Then they asked whether I had any “psych issues,” but I thought they said “psychic issues” and I was all, “Like . . . can I read your thoughts?” Then they put me in a private room. I think the lesson here is that you should fake mental illness to get faster service. Turns out, though, that it’s just a sprain, so I have to wear a splint until it heals, and I also have to keep it elevated. Here’s a picture of me driving myself home:
Stop honking at me. I’m disabled, you bastards.
Awesome. The people in my neighborhood are lucky to have me.
P.P.P.P.S. Several of my friends have implied that Barnaby Jones was probably just acting in self-defense, since you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones, but these are fancy, filleted, boneless chicken breasts. Meanwhile, I’m eating ramen noodles, and his sweater cost more than my entire outfit. Way to blame the victim, people. I may never play the ukulele again.
No one’s falling for it, Barnaby Jones.
AND THAT’S THE END of the “stabbed by chicken” story. Unless I’m at a party. Then you can’t get me to stop telling that story, because it never gets old. Unless you’re Victor, who says he would prefer that I never mention it again. Probably because he knows he looks like an accomplice. Plus, I think he’s embarrassed when I mention all of those grapes I discovered under the fridge, so for his sake I changed them to “marbles” in this book. You’re welcome, Victor.
Aaaanyway, right now you’re probably asking yourself, “Just how many finger-injury stories can this girl possibly have?” and the answer is, “Lots.” But the only one I’m telling you (aside from the “stabbed by chicken” story) is the one I started with way back at the beginning of this chapter, because I’m saving the rest for book two. But these are totally the best of all my finger stories, so just be forewarned that when book two comes out, Publishers Weekly is going to be all, “If you are expecting more of the same masterful retelling of brilliant finger-damage stories from overnight-sensation and long-suffering saint Jenny Lawson, then think again, because this book is all thumbs.” Or they might say something about how it has “two left feet.” It’s hard to tell with Publishers Weekly. Honestly, they write just horrible reviews. In fact, I bet they’re writing a terrible one about this book even as we speak, but probably just because I totally called them out, and I just used the review they wanted to be able to use, and now they’re all, “What the hell are we going to say now? She took all the good lines. I mean, ‘All thumbs’? That’s gold, you guys.” And I’m sorry about that, Publishers Weekly, but I’m a writer. That’s what I do. (Editor’s note: I quit.)
So. As we discussed earlier, I’m at the doctor’s office, alone with my finger cancer, wondering whether I should have just gone straight to an oncologist instead, but I bravely hold out my swollen finger and the doctor looks at me condescendingly and says, “Oh. You got a boo-boo, huh?” Then I kicked him right in his junk. But only in my head, because doctors are quick to file assault charges, because they can make up their own medical damages. Like, a doctor could claim I gave him “popped ball,” and no jury in the land would question him, but if I insist that I have finger cancer, people stare at me like I’m crazy (in, coincidentally, exactly the same way that the doctor was looking at me right then. Like I’m the crazy one). Keep in mind that he just sued me for something called “popped ball.” Except that that only happened in my head too. On second thought, don’t keep that in mind. This whole paragraph isn’t really doing me any favors.
The doctor quickly dismissed my claims of cancer, but I insisted that he research digital cancer first, because I was pretty sure I was dying of it.
“What’s that? You think you have cancer caused by digital exposure?” Dr. Roland asked me over the rims of his glasses.