Fine, I started a blog. And all you get for a first post is a reposting of my slightly-fixed story of how I broke my hand (and, gdmnt, it was my right hand, which leads to problems...well, nevermind).

I went to the movies with my roomie. I wanna say it was dark knight, but thats probably not right, but this was in June, and I'm too lazy to look up when dark knight came out.

Afterwards, as girls are wont to do, I had to pee badly and so took a kindly trip into the females washroom. The peeing was uneventful.

As I bent over the sink to wash up, I heard some angry muttering. I looked over my shoulder and saw a rather disheveled woman glaring at the sinks. I caught her eye, and being the nice lady I am, gave the psycho a smile as I turned off the water and headed to the paper towel dispenser. And suddenly (I still don't know how) she had crossed 15 feet of space and sucker punched me in the kidney, and then in the spleen.

Forgive me if that's not biologically possible, but it sure felt that way.

I swung around, (hey, hockey prepared me for this shiz, right? Well, focking no, apparently) and spat on me. I slipped on the floor and she hit me again and down I went, landing on my tailbone (which is still a little tender if I sit wrong). Luckily (or unluckily, I guess), I brought her down with me.

Mind you, during all this, I'm screaming dry-heaving bloody murder.

I finally manage to pull back, her face in front of me, and let my fist fly. It hit her GOOD, solid, and she stared at me slightly dazed before turning her head because a cute little old lady had come to me rescue and was beating the everlasting hell out of her with what may have been a 50 pound purse. God love old women and their huge purses.

I almost started to giggle at the whole scenario (because, honestly, this shit only happens to me) when the pain in my hand set in and I stared disbelievingly at my somewhat unhinged thumb.

Turns out I fractured my palm in a couple spots, including where it hinges or something to my thumb. I had to wear a sling for a week, waiting for the swelling to go down enough to put a cast on it. I don't think I slept at all that week.

Then they put a cast on me. And over 9000 weeks later, took it off, rebroke my hand because it was setting wrong (focking asstard doctors) and then shacked me up with the cast for another 6 weeks.

Now I cant quite bend my flexible fingers back to my wrist like I used to, but its pretty good.

The end.

Actually, I'm dead bored at the whore house. Lets start on the Subway (or as we fondly called it, Scrubway) stories, shall we?

It was my first "real" job - I was just barely 16, working at a local Subway. I had been there for 6 months without only one incident - I had six stitches in my right middle finger from an incident with one of our large olive cans – and because of that, I was working in the back, doing prep, because my padded and bound hand made for clumsy sandwich making.

My coworker, a thirty-something woman with three children (we’ll call her Amy)(and hot damn, she was a total MILF), was in the front, restocking the meat (shuddup your dirty minds). A couple middle-aged women (they were regulars, on the “Subway Diet”) were in a corner, chatting and crowing like old women do.

Then…everything focking fell apart. And I mean that literally. In the blink of an eye, I hear screams, a loud roar, a tinkle of broken glass, and there are suddenly shelves and plastic containers falling down all around me. A deafening crash has me thinking thinking that somehow one of the huge ovens fell over.

My first thought, as I wade through the fallen containers, is earthquake. In central Illinois, not common, but we were close enough to a very powerful fault line. As I came out of the back area, I realized what happened in my little store may be far worse. Amy was pinned underneath the “bain,” the term for the area where we make your sandwich. And the reason the large bain was on its side, my disbelieving eyes saw, was because it had been hit by a truck.

The old man behind the wheel's is lookin around, all crazy eyed, like "How the fuck did I get here?" I largely ignore his punk ass, because I have better things to attend to.

This store had large plate glass windows that began only 4 inches off the ground. Far later, we learned the elderly man driving had likely punched the gas instead of the brake. The over 9000 women that were lunching were cowering in the corner. In my squeaky 15 year old voice, I cried for them to get help. They stood, unsure, until I repeated my request as I slipped and slid through a sea of tomatoes, olives, roast beef, and the like, to get to my coworker. They finally left and made a beeline for the Ace Hardware store next door.

Amy was crying, not only was the tremendous weight of the bain on her pelvis and back, but because she was also being burned by the hot well that houses the meatballs. I tried in to budge anything, to relieve even a bit of pressure, but kids, I'm 5'2'' and on a good day at age 16, I might have been 105 pounds. Thankfully, my brain wasn't quite as small, I unplugged the hotwell, and poured cool water onto her stomach and leg as best I could.

Focking finally, I can hear sirens. Police arrive first, and then firemen. It takes six of them to lift the bain a few inches, and a couple more to gently pull Amy onto a backboard. The asshole who caused the incident is also loaded into a ambulance. He’s suspected of having a slight concussion, but no further problems (other than not knowing the difference between the gas and brake, apparently) Amy turned out to have a broken back, and a broken hip, and second degree burn on her leg where it was pressed to the hot well. I gave my account to the policemen, and so did the women lunchers.

My manager showed up, and then the owner, and I was told I could go home. The store was shut down for a couple months for repairs, and through our local newspaper, I learned Amy was having a very difficult time getting Subway or the elderly man’s insurance to pay her medical bills. It all turned out alright in the end – except I had to get a new job.

So – that, my friends, was my first “big” job experience. But hardly my last. Indeed, it isn’t even the last of my Subway experiences. But it is the last that happened at this store.

Does Amy's cooch still function properly?

I made your title says something about 100 reasons why I <3 twits or something. Heck, I don't even remember now.

WankWoman and Fapman?

My days at the whore house suck so bad lately that I asked today if they will let me be the trashman.

Soooo.

I fail at the whole blog thing. I never really have anything to say, because all I do is work, take photographs, and sleep.
And I haven't even been taking photographs much lately.

I DO have a tumblr. Kinda like a scrapbook blog, if you will.

And I take up my time at work by playing with shots I've taken. Finally got a circle splash radius right for once:


I baked a cake for my mom earlier this week!! I'm pretty sure the picture of me and the vinegar erases the "can't take a bad shot" myth.

SO. Now, after 4 months of not using the blog here, you're fully updated.