it's just a flesh wound

for the past 5 days, I've been rocking a Sweet Black Eye. and when I capitalize, I just do so to emphasize the extremity of the black eye I am referring to. this is a shiner to end all shiners. the only way it could be worse is if I went blind, slipped into a coma, or sliced my face open and by the grace of allah, none of those happened.



whoops.

how'd I manage that? how, do you ask? not by a mugging in harlem, not by defending anyone's honor, not by throwing myself in front of a semi truck to save a child. I did this by falling down the stupid fucking stairs. the stairwell leading into my studio basement is unlit and thus extremely dangerous (I recall being warned by jay about it the day I moved in), and after coming home after getting drinks with some friends in the east village, I misstepped on the last one to the bottom and bashed my head into the overhang above the doorway. I remember peeling myself off the floor, shaking it off, getting my key in the door and being madder at my clumsiness than a hornet trapped in a maraca. I don't recall any moment where I felt acute pain or even holding my hand up to my face or anything to that effect, just being inconsolably pissed and letting loose a string of expletives that would have impressed george carlin. I went to bed, and I woke up in the morning with a mysterious ache in my head, rather than just a headache. I went to the mirror to investigate and met my gaze in the reflection to see my right eye swollen half shut and turning a variety of beautiful shades of blue and purple, like a sunset of violence setting on my lid.

not a good look. especially not a good look for the job interview I had yesterday. I am not going to discount the small grace that it had de-puffed enough that my makeup skills were en pointe enough to mask my best rihanna impression. I'm still experimenting with cover up and different gradients of shimmery violet eyeshadows.

I have no doubt that having being somewhat intoxicated when this went down had something to do with it, but I've tripped on those stairs several times before when I was stone sober. I think the kicker is that I didn't think to ice it, and that's how I ended up discovering that "eggplant explosion" is not just a color one might use for the molding in a bathroom. regardless, it hasn't improved my mood at all, having to curb my instinctual facial expressions for fear of the inevitable pain shooting down the side of my face, and not being able to leave my apartment building without wearing makeup of tranny caliber.

I really do love new york, but I am not loving being unemployed in new york. I love my eye, and I want to send it a 'get well now' card. instead, all I've got is unverified webMD-esque testimonials to what works best for making the bruising go away swiftly. hot compresses, vitamin c, rest, water, and pineapple, apparently. I've force fed myself so much tropical fruit that I've got acid burns on the roof of my mouth and the previously personally condemned starchy banana is starting to look pretty good. especially with peanut butter...

moral of the story? I am a dumbass. but if I wear this look out on the town you'd better believe no one will fuck with me on the train.