violetsnvalium: (Default)
[personal profile] violetsnvalium
Not working has put me into a strange dream state. I keep going to work anyway and just making out with girls and getting drunk for free, and then being confused. Then I make out with the boys. It's all good, except for not working.

Peh. I look like a ballet teacher at the moment. I don't know why. I have this "no no no leetle girls!" thing happening, which is amusing.

Anyway, I refused my hand operation, because they said I would never be able to move my middle finger again. And I need my middle finger for Beethovening. So they sort of shrugged and took the bandages off, and I left, and my hand is all weirdly deformed, but I am re-educating it the only way I know how.

Yes, it's horribly bad. That was the second day without the bandages, and my middle finger is now half a centimetre shorter than it used to be, and my hand is still broken, and it hurts, Goddamnit. I can't move it the way it should be moved, as can be clearly heard. But. We shall prevail, with this strange dyslexic broken hand.

Three hours of Czerny every day, is my prescription. (Nasty medicine.)

AND. Now that the bandages are off, I can go back to work! (We shall not quibble about the ins and outs of working with a broken hand. What's the worst that could happen? I could rebreak it. And if I rebreak it, it can be operated properly, the way it should be.)

On Thursday I went to a concert. It was called Pyro Liszt, and it was a piano and an orchestra playing Liszt with little fireworks behind them, to go with the "emotion of the music". It was also a French man, dramatically reading out bits of Liszt's diary, with a growling burping voice. It was so funny. The pianist didn't really know how to uncutesy Liszt (which is very possible) and played Liebestraum at face value. Then he played La Campanella without even trying to make it thunder and with fourteen wrong notes. "Oh well," I thought, "maybe he will redeem himself with the Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2." But for that one he left the stage, and the orchestra played it alone, and little Catherine wheels started going off to show how dramatic it was, and the lawn set on fire and they put it out with a little extinguisher, and then someone in a building nearby found a trumpet and started blarting trumpet noises during the dramatic readings, and I was laughing so hard I was crying. And it was contagious, so all the people around me started giggling, and after a while the whole section was hysterically laughing, and I realised that I was messing up the whole important concert, so I left.

Now. Time to get dressed in a white ballgown for the Soirée Carte Blanche and to drop off my X-rays at work (my boss says he knows a hand specialist and is not happy about me being deformed and mutilated), and to pester to know when I can come back. LET ME BACK BEHIND THE BAR. LET ME IIIIIIN, LEETLE GIRLS.
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violetsnvalium: (Default)

August 2013


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