My so-called journal

Yesterday I bruised—or fractured; I can't tell—a rib when I fell in front of the famous Astor Place Barber Shop.

I was walking by and a guy sweeping up outside—this was broad daylight—managed to hook my ankle with his broom and bring me down. I fell hard on my left side, and I have no idea if it was deliberate on his part. I sat up, gasping for breath, and when I caught my breath I just said, "Fuck…YOU!" bringing my fists down hard on my thighs.

(In retrospect, what I should have done was snap all their pictures, since I carry my camera almost everywhere I go; I was just too shocked and dazed at the time.)

I also didn't go to the ER; I waited until today and saw my chiropractor, who adjusted me and made me feel better. "You got away easy," he said, assuring me it could have been worse. He also said they don't tape the ribs anymore, so I would have just spent time waiting in the ER for an X-ray so they could do nothing and send me on my way.

Every breath I take still hurts; I took a tryptophan last night so I could sleep, even though I wanted to take a Vicodin®. I slept.