This week has been fucking ridiculous. I'm glad it's over, except it isn't really, because my ankle is still unhappy and I can walk only at a snail's pace, followed by plenty of elevation and icing. And yes, I've been doing all I can tolerate doing to take care of it all week, including religious and proper use of an ace bandage. The swelling is going down and it isn't super hurty or anything, but I can't move it a lot and there is a lot of soreness.
As a result of my awesomely purple injury (no, really, the bruise is spectacular!), I've been begging rides off a barely-awake Kevin in the mornings and a speed demon boss in the evenings. Well, I got rides from the boss until we were halfway to my house last night, which is exactly when her 15-year-old Civic hatchback lost power steering and failed to restart after she maneuvered it into a nearby parking lot. The aroma of burning plastic was everywhere, but there was no evidence of leaking or other obvious trouble. As soon as it was determined that we weren't going anywhere without rescue (in the form of her boyfriend), it started raining. Hard. And I was only wearing a sock on one foot. Well, a sock and a bandage.
In lesser crimes against my well-being, the backlight on my camera's LCD apparently burned out, so that thing is useless. It's no longer under warranty, of course.
And I finally got myself to call the mechanic I've been meaning to take my scrapey brake-addled car to for weeks, only to learn that they're closed until Monday.
So I'm a gimp with no ride. Also, no food.