I can't go anywhere. I've watched everything on TV that is worth watching. Even the Judge Alex reruns suck. I can only type with one hand for so long, and even reading is a chore with just one hand that is also attached to a sore shoulder. My parents are rationing the Vicodin as though we're in the Donner Party and Vicodin is the only food our family has to eat, so everything hurts all the time. Anti-inflamatories maake me really sick, so I can't take Motrin or anything like it. My parentss won't let us have aspirin even though most doctors say it's OK by 16. Tylenol does little to help, and if I've had much, my parents won't give me Vicodin when it's time because there is acetaminophen in Vicoden, and they're worried I'll destroy my liver. I'm not sure how much it would matter at this point, anyway.
Speaking of food, there is nothing in the house that I like to eat, and neither of my parents will go shopping. There isn't even any milk or juice in the refrigerator. They just tell me to use my one semi-good hand to make a peanut butter sandwich. We don't even have jelly. My brother is at a baseball camp, so food is no longer important. If he were here, the fridge and cupboards would be full of cereal, ice cream, cheese, and all sorts of good things. He's not here, so my parents aren't shopping. Then they have the nerve to complain when I lose weight.
My friends are off having fun. I'm stuck in the wheelchair for at least two more weeks. It's too hot, and my leg itches inside my cast. My parents took away the knitting needle my friend gave me for scratching on the very rare chance (like it's probably never happened in history with a dull knitting needle; a coat hanger or something sharper, maybe, but not a dull knitting needle) that it could cause a break in the skin and an infection.
What doesn't hurt itches. I'm receiving regular antibiotic injections, which makes even sitting painful. I hate my life.
I know that there are others in the world who have it worse than I. Soldiers are in foxholes in Afghanistan. People are dying of cancer. Little girls have close relatives who molest them. I could be stuck again with my unnamed aunt and uncle, although CPS would probably go after my parents if they put me there again. Children in many parts of the world are hungry to the point of starvation.
Still, I'm so out of it that I barely care. I'd almost rather be in a foxhole in Afghanistan with the use of all my extremities than where I am and in the condition I am right now. I wish something good could happen.
Dad, if you read this and complain to me that I'm starting to sound like an old lady again, you will see a hissy fit that makes the tantrums I threw as a two-year-old seem like cocktail hour at Bar Americain.