Very bad news this week from the glorious world of seeing eight different doctors before getting a diagnosis. My knee injury from six weeks ago has now been identified as an ACL tear, by a real doctor rather than my original health insurance that I like to call WebMD.com.
Since I like to think that I’m pretty active, I can only cope with my new-found static lifestyle in one logical way: find an abusive, co-dependant, fantastically destructive long-term relationship with a girl carrying a tremendous amount of issues.
This solves numerous problems while also taking pressure off my knee and placing it, instead on my friendships, personality and ability to talk to other girls without having a baseball bat swung at my head. I can think of no other solution to kill the down-time that will now be filled with resting, icing and screaming at a “psycho-with-tits” while my knee heals.
So I have readjusted my image of a dream girl from a smart, active, successful, funny and ambitious world traveler to someone who was abused by a creepy uncle. I’ll even settle for first cousin because the moral here is that I’m no longer picky. I need the kind of distracting force that only comes with someone stealing my SIM card to read all my text messages to see who I have dialed in the past months because that kind of super-jealous suspicion is the only way to really show true love.
I need to spend hours at a time lying down, which will now be successfully orchestrated by spending days at a time on the phone assuring my lovely new girlfriend that she shouldn’t jump off the George Washington Bridge (will she get cell phone reception there?). I want to stay fit, but running is out of the picture, so the only way I’ll get sufficient cardio is from having the kind of crazy sex that only severely mentally-scarred women can provide. We’re talking beatings, near-death experiences and lots and lots of tears and screaming while a cute Valentine’s Day mix tape soothes the mood in the background and a flamethrower dances inches from my nipples.
As crazy and psychotic as volatile and co-dependant girlfriends can be, it’s important not to discount their role in the rehabilitation process. I’ll need to immerse myself in this form of co-dependence for the next six to eight years of my life with frequent fake-pregnancy scares and my worldly possessions being sold for drug money in order to give myself a renewed sense of purpose in light of my stifled hiking and soccer playing.
So if anyone knows anyone who has a grade-school reading level, a tremendous lack of self-esteem, and spent several years in the Israeli Army, by all means, send her my way. Let the healing process begin.
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo has nothing to do with good writing, but instead it’s like a verbal Sudoku puzzle, where the author has tried to craft a story where every chapter ends on a twist or little nugget of intrigue so that you feel like you’re solving the puzzle along with him. This is different from an ordinary murder mystery because those books take things into account like natural dialogue, internal thoughts and rich characters that make most readers feel like they’re too stupid to be reading the book. In The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, all those literary elements have been done away with to make people feel like geniuses.
