Why Worry

Hello everybody out there in healthy-ankle-land. I'm merely a visitor to your country. That's right everybody. In case you haven't heard, I'm the newest gimp on the hall. The golden crutches have been passed down like a crown from Tony to David to me. I'm confined to them and this stupid plaster cast for up to a week or 10 days. At least that's what they tell me. They of course don't know that my ligaments happen to heel at a rate 7 times faster than the ordinary ligament. So I should be walking again by dinner tomorrow, and I'll be leading off and playing left field in our game Friday. Actually, it's not that my ligaments are 7 times stronger than the ordinary ligament. It's just that I'm 7 times stupider than the ordinary ligament.

Anyway, I was talking to my dad the other night about one thing or another that was going wrong in my life. He tried to console me, but I told him I was fine and I'd get by. I just had to stick it out until the end of the semester and I'd be fine. To this he replied "I worry about you, son." I told him that he shouldn't worry about me and was cut off...


Quote of the Day 4/8

"Well, I do. If I had another son, I wouldn't give a shit. But you're all I got."
-My always supportive and caring father



My mom wasn't quite as supportive as dad.



Love, crutches, and sore arm pits,
Dustin.


Still Hobbling Right Here...