And then Jersey said put it online.

Sooo… still jacked up on meds, I’ve decided to think about that. Three short stories, written while under the influence, sans any lucid editing. I’ll offer it as a pdf chapbook type download for $5.00 (oh shit, self-publishing!) and the proceeds will go to either my medical bills, a good lawyer, or bail.

Whatcha think? Ohhh… a question, and it’s not even Thursday! Would you buy it? Would you like to see what happened after the video the Hippie went and posted on facebook? “Vascular Access: A writer’s journey through pain management” bwahahahahaha uh oh. Meds are kicking in… time to write!

Perfect quote. It’s how I felt. And a little giggle-shoutout to my sister…

Now then, because I twittered the world. Because I have friends and family that will ask. Because I don’t want to repeat it over and over like a drunk that only knows one joke… here’s what happened.

For those close by, it was at the section of Haines road where you can cross from Ollies to Big K. I was leaving Ollies parking lot heading to Big K, my last chance for a swimming pool this late in the season.

See, it’s still hot here. My Wisconsin blood requires a kiddie pool. There was a girlchild and a cat and a kiddie pool the previous weekend. Girl child feels bad. Cat won the battle. Kiddie pool deflated and dumped it’s water in under a minute. It was impressive, but sad, because I heart my kiddie pool and it was like watching the last bit of water in the desert dry up in front of your eyes. I had checked locally at the Rite Aid but they only had a bigger one with a pump and everything. I’m a simple girl. Just give me an inflatable pool I can sit in with the boy and an umbrella drink or play in with all the kids. So I was scrounging the stores in York after work. But summer goodies have all been replaced by school supplies and the beginnings of Halloween (yay!).

Big K was my last hope in York. No one in York even had pools left, let alone choices.

I had initially thought to turn right onto Haines and then left at the bank and go around that way, not believing I’d be able to get straight across the traffic. But there was no traffic. I wasn’t texting. I wasn’t lighting a cigarette or fiddling with the radio. I was very aware that it was a dangerous intersection and I was taking great precautions. Which just makes me all the more pissed off about the whole thing. The eastbound lane was full of stopped traffic for the light. The westbound was completely empty. I looked both directions, double checked, and then the driver that was stopped right before the Big K entrance and I did that driver-to-driver mouthing, hand signals thing and she waved me across—aware that I was there and wanted to go that direction. I looked both ways again. Especially scanning left because that traffic would be moving if there was any. That was the danger.

I thought.

All clear, I pulled out. I was going about 4 miles an hour and I heard the woman who had waved me honk. She had seen the bat out of hell. I don’t know for sure if he just came flying down the road, from around a corner, or from the back of the stopped line of cars, thinking he’d pass everyone. But he was flying, about 45 I would guess. I had started to turn in my seat to look back at the peripheral blur when I got the jolt. He hit the back passenger corner, slammed me diagonal, and then slid along me and pushed me across into the wrong Big K driveway. I did a zig and a zag to avoid the two vehicles on either side of the driveway, still waiting for their light to turn—thanks for the cone course, dad! And I stopped. A few thoughts ran through my head and then auto pilot took over. I pulled into Big K and turned off the truck. I sat there for a moment and made sure I was breathing. Didn’t feel hurt, didn’t taste blood, and got out.

A van pulled up behind me with two women in it. The blur had been blue, this was gold. I looked around for the blue but saw nothing. The girls in the van had already written down their info by the time I got to their window. Volunteer witnesses that saw the whole thing—score. I was shaking horribly. I now completely understand the “like a leaf” and “out of my shoes” expressions. She asked if I smoked. I said yes. She offered one. I laughed and declined. And we waited a moment for the blur blue to come back. I imagine he had been going fast enough that he had to continue to the intersection and turn around.

My back bumper corner is shredded in a twisted metal/plastic tiger clawed manner. There’s a lovely dent above the wheel well. And a contact scrap from the corner up to the door. Not bad really. Wisconsin trucks are build frozen tundra tough, apparently. He, however, had no front bumper. He had to go fetch it from the road. Meanwhile I had pulled out my camera and started taking pictures. My damage, his license plate, etc. When he put the bumper on the grass, my outside voice kicked in.

“Dead center on the bumper, huh? What lane were you in exactly?”

Silence.

“Ohhh… maroon paint from the crunch in the middle all the way to the end. Yeah, that’s mine. Thanks”

Silence.

I was calm, but I was angry. He finally asked if I was ok. I asked for all his info and his first born. My favorite of the lines he managed to get out of his mouth, “It’s my mom’s truck.” Really? He looked to be mid to late 20s. Time to move out, hon. Followed by the revelation that he doesn’t have insurance information and had to call for daddy’s. While we waited for the police, I called the Big K from the parking lot. No pools. Damn it. I didn’t even have to be here. I could have gone home. I… I… argh! Mr. Friendly showed up. Took info from both of us. And everyone went away.

My back and arm were sore. I figured it was just stress and it would go away once I calmed down and decided to sleep on it.

It didn’t. The doc didn’t have room to see me and suggested the hospital. So we had an adventure in the ER friday. And by friday, I mean all damn day friday. I hate ERs. They are not quick. The word Emergency should be removed.

But the ER was a good time. My nurse had a dragonfly tattoo on her wrist (see image). I told her my back hurt, she told me to take off my clothes. I snapped, “I want dinner first.” And she laughed. She later caved when I begged to look inside the locked cart labeled “vascular access,” which is so going to be a title for something, but wouldn’t let me take pictures of its contents. My doctor was about 12 but good. Hippie said she was hiding a southern accent. I didn’t hear it. And the xray tech, 14 pictures later, completely understood the exposed gown issue with no bra and offered me an upgraded version that actually covered me while they trekked me through the rat maze of hospital hallways.

There are no broken bones. The back and neck are fine. But the arm is a problem. From shoulder to fingertip it hurts. And by hurts I mean like hell. It’s hurt to type without pain meds. With pain meds I’m afraid to type. Hippie and the boss think I should. They think Kelli Bizarro fiction would be entertaining. Maybe I will later. Regardless, a writer with a painful arm is a bad thing. Very bad thing. From my elbow down is sharp pain, radiating across my wrist and up to the first two fingers, with a pinpoint of severe pain on the underside of my wrist. Numbness on the pinky side of my hand and a shoulder that feels like it lost a slug-bug war also suck. And I have petechiae all over my hand/wrist, trailing and fading it’s way up to my shoulder.

The registration nurse had a funny line that made Hippie and I both giggle. “Are you a writer?” Yeah. “Because you’re very precise with your descriptions. It’s helpful.”

The assumption right now is that I slammed into the door/window when I got the initial hit/jolt. If you pretend you’re holding the steering wheel and twist to look over your right shoulder, your elbow automatically comes up a little. The twist is what tweaked my back for a day—but it’s just sore, not painful. I don’t remember, it’s just a blur, but we’re guessing that I slammed that elbow and subsequently rolled up and hit the shoulder, bruising everything there. The petechiae and wrist are most likely from gripping the wheel hard while getting slammed, a reflexive “bracing for impact” the doc said. The doc is calling is nerve pain, not damage right now. She believes that it’s caused from bone and muscle swelling—and I am thinking positively and agreeing with her. So I have steroids for bone swelling, muscle relaxants to chill them out, and vicodin to cover the pain. In five days the swelling will be down and the nerves won’t have pressure on them and life will be grand.

Or a little boy I know, driving mommy’s truck with daddy’s insurance, is going to wish he hadn’t been in such a damn hurry.

Apparently, I’m quite entertaining on the muscle relaxants. Hippie’s been playing truth or dare and asking all kinds of things I wouldn’t necessarily answer normally. It’s like evil truth serum and I feel all jacked out on it. I refused to let this interrupt pre-planned family stuff, so we went to the surreal National Aquarium in Baltimore on Saturday (where out of the 200+ pics I took, the camera was fine but I was blurry and had to delete over half of them) and then school shopping Sunday, where I danced to store muzak and continued to break into lyricspeak whenever someone says something that vaguely reminds me of a song.

And yes, I did get a kiddie pool. When I got home from the initial accident, I had the hippie drive to the local Rite Aid and we got the super pool. Complete with air filter. Clearanced out for $49—score. The kids have played marco polo and been swimming nonstop. I’ve been in it once.

*please forgive any mistakes. this blog has been written over the course of three drug-induced days. occasionally written and/or editing while lucid…

Sunrise on the Mackinaw Bridge… one of the few things on the 19-hour road trip that I enjoy. Others include cherry coffee, 4am boat counts, and of course, the two dead hookers. But I digress.

The sunrise made me sad this time. I almost drove off the bridge staring at it. I nudged a snoring hippie, “Look, it’s beautiful!” watched his blank stare scan the horizon and then one half-open eye turned toward me and I smile-sighed, “Yes, you may go back to sleep now.” He wasn’t awake. But even if he had been, I’m not sure he would have understood completely. Not completely.

When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I lost a friend. When my ex and I divorced, I lost the big screen TV. When Wisconsin and I broke up, I lost the entire chain of Great Lakes. I lost my water.

Breaking up hurts. Even after the hurt is healed, the memory can sting. Seeing the water at sunrise, the reflections, the tiny white caps and the boats gliding across it, made me yearn to dip my feet. I wanted to pick rocks and find shells. I wanted to dig my toes in the sand at the edge of the surf and wait for them to be engulfed in a wet mire of tiny crystals. I get giddy when I see the water. I’ve stopped before and taken a twenty minute break from the drive-from-hell to run along her shores, kids and hippie in tow. But I couldn’t stop this time. There was a family wedding to get to and we were late. I swallowed back a tear and kept driving, window down so I could smell the water and relive a thousand memories.

Even though breaking up hurts, it’s those little things you hold on to that make the occasional twinge of pain easier to bear—the good memories you fall back on, the ones that drown out the bad. Yes I miss my water, but there’s water here. It’s just different water. And I have memories, lots and lots and lots of them—from childhood through teenage years and on into adulthood. Lots.

And I have physical reminders.

Because when you break up, you always take something with you. You hold onto some little physical reminder. When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I wrapped the love letters in ribbon and tucked them into my babybox. I still have them, and the half-heart necklace is in a jewelry box. When my ex and I broke up, I put away specific jewelry to be handed down someday. And when Wisconsin and I broke up, I took her rocks. I have stones around the house and several pebbles I keep in my purse. They’ve lost their smell (yes, rocks have a smell) but just the sight of them is enough to allow me to let go of the hurt of the break up. To remember the good times.

~ “Standing” by Shel Silverstein

Thursday. Garage Talk. But I have a to-do hitlist on my wall, repeated on a sticky on the laptop, and I think of it more than a pregnant woman considers labor in her ninth month. I have shit to do. So, I apologize, but I didn’t come up with a question this week. Instead we’re going to reverse the roles. (See now, I could have just said I haven’t done this for a while, but I’m all about truth in advertising!)

Ask me anything… unless you’re coming to Horrible Saturday. In which case, you can ask me Saturday.

Because, yes, there will be full disclosure coming as soon as I get it. But for now, I can tell you that I’ll be there. The Hippie will be there. And no, that cover is soooo not real. BUT I will be reading from the novel. First real reading, first tidbits from the novel. That’s right. You know that’s enough to get you there…

But if you need more. I’ll be reading, signing and doing an interview… and I’ll have Dark Faith & Last Rites, Fresh Blood, Poe Little Thing, and a couple Shroud #6s with me. Come play!

York Emporium
343 W Market St.
York, PA 17401

Saturday, August 14th • 10am-6pm

directions