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Cyborg Relations

Mood: Bed-bound
Drinking: Done for the day

I come to you a different girl, for I am now part metal.

No. Seriously.

The surgery on my twice-broken wrist was a week ago this past Tuesday. I’ve never had surgery before, and I can’t say that I recommend it. From the anesthesia that makes you throw up to the “dissolvable” stitches to the yards of bloody gauze and complete loss of dignity, it’s all rather unpleasant.

The good news is that my bones are on the mend, thanks to a very impressive bit of metal that now lives under my skin. On the x-ray, it looks like a robot arm. Or a garden rake. Or possibly a toothbrush. I plan to get a wallet-size print of the film so I can carry around constant proof of my cyborg innards.

Meanwhile, I’m still a one-handed typist, Boy is still struggling with the finer points of ponytail making, and at least three of my girlfriends have had to help me re-button my pants after a visit to the loo. The silver lining: All my ubergoth arm warmers are getting a second life as sexy cast covers.

In more exciting happenings, M and I are almost finished with Alice is my middle name, the newest cinepoem. She may even debut as soon as tomorrow. Hold your breath.

-Lo, whose left arm still says “yes” in bright blue marker — they scribbled on me for surgery, but now I’m castified and can’t scrub it off.

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