Just call me Mr. Crizzle.

This is what Chris insists I should call myself. Want an explanation? Fine. Be that way.

So the plantar fasciitis hasn’t really gotten much better. Considerably worse, to be perfectly honest. I now have very real problems walking the distances that I have to without the assistance of my cane. In fact, last night I tried to walk from Ashton Lane to my flat (a distance of about 2.5 km or 1.5 miles, a distance that I used to walk several times a day) without using my cane and was almost in tears by the end of it. The major contributor to this lack of progress is almost certainly work, especially since I stood for a total of almost 20 hours last weekend. I promise I am in fact trying to not walk too much during the week, but even the distance required to get from my flat on the 2nd floor (3rd floor in US) to the subway and from the subway to the library still puts me WAY over the “average American” number of paces taken per diem, namely 1,000 (at least according to Morgan Spurlock of “Super Size Me” fame).

SO, I am rarely seen outside my flat these days without my wee granny cane (I bought a cheap bamboo-esque one at a pharmacy in hopes that it’ll appear less threatening while at work than a great metal job . . . it was only later that I realized it was designed for a woman!). In an attempt to cheer me up, Chris has made the assertion that I just need a fur-trimmed fedora, a purple leasure suit, and a new vocabulary, and I could be the Pimpinest Medievalist in town . . . as if that’s difficult. I even have the swagger down already. Oh, and “Mr. Crizzle” is an ebonification of “cripple.” Clever, huh? That’s what five years in a PhD programme will do for you!

Slainte.

“Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.”
~Geto Boys – “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta”

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