and two fully functioning hands.
Correction, I had a huge TV and two fully functioning hands.
The move imminent, I spent a good chunk of my morning tidying up around the house and throwing away junk I don’t need. I was also taking stock of the bigger objects around the house, because I don’t intend on dealing with them around December, when all the U.K.-related chaos ought to be in full swing. The first, most obvious item to crop up on that list was my TV, so (obviously?) I decided to get rid of it. It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of decision, and minutes later, an ad for it popped up on one of the many uni message-boards. I didn’t believe much would come of it, but minutes—literally minutes—later, e-mails started pouring in asking me for details, pictures, and most importantly, whether it could be picked up later in the day.
Perhaps it was the beautifully artistic pictures I’d taken of it and its remote. Perhaps it was the ridiculously low price-tag I’d placed on it. One will never know.
Anyway, a couple of hours later, a cute woman and her dad were at my doorstep, just itching to take it off my hands; oddly enough, even more so than I was itching to have it taken off my hands. The catch was that I was to help the old man carry it over to his truck.
Now you may or may not know this, but I haven’t been seeing Piquant often enough, and I sure as hell oughtn’t move around 150 lb objects, even with another’s help. But we went ahead and did so anyway, and after 10–15 breather breaks, finally hoisted the fucking poundage onto his truck. Relieved, I received payment and returned home, only to realise I couldn’t lift my keys to my apartment door’s keyhole. My arm was functional, but my hand refused to grip the key.
Or for that matter, even open or close.
It’s been hours since, and my left hand still hasn’t regained functionality. I fucking broke it, and this post has been typed-out using one hand.
Update: There was apparently some muscle tearing involved. It is recovering very slowly.