Scratch an Itch

I caught a fleeting glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye.  I knew she was there.  I had intentionally avoided making any eye contact, but I could not help myself.  I had not been so close to my mistress in months and revelled in how beautiful she looked.  Sunshine's glow highlighted her features and her lines were even better than I remembered.  Despite my planned avoidance, I suddenly was captured in her trance, unable to help myself.  In such a hurry to touch her, I forgot my crutches and hastily hopped the chain link fence that was the final barrier between us.  I completed the obstacle as if my cast was no longer worn and crouched down beside her.  My fingers reached out and ...

I was really on the Apex Trail and touching its gritty dirt!   Wahoo!

Tubbin'

Anger fueled cuss words accompany each step as I crutch towards the bathroom.  The cumbersome cast, decorated in the pattern from Norway's crazy Olympic curling team pants, is a bitch. 

A selfie of a cast? With a pink background?  Pathetic.