On Laura Ingalls Wilder & Amputation

Cute little stuff cutes me up real big sometimes.

Case in point:

I had an appointment with Chiroman yesterday. (My knee is f-ed up, and I figure I best take advantage of the student discount while I still can.) Anyways, my crush on Chiroman has long-dissipated, thankfully. Crushes are like unscratchable itches sometimes, and them's the crushes I'm more than happy to part with.

So we're standing in his office, and he's having me do these weird knee exercises with what basically is a large rubber-band strung around my shin. And I'm all wobbly and shit, so he says to me, "You can hold my hand if you want."

And in that moment, the way he said it sounded all cute and Laura Ingalls Wilder and shit, like he and I had suddenly become twelve years-old, stretched out barefoot in the long-grass near a stony creek, staring at clouds, freckles darkening in the sun, and then him bashfully reaching out his hand towards mine and saying those words.

I slipped my hand in his, and then, of course, promptly destroyed the moment by suggesting we amputate my leg above the knee.

Because that, my friends, is how I roll.

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