Thanksgiving is upon us. A holiday in which we commemorate an event that may or may not have happened and may or may not have been an actual Thanksgiving ceremony, in which of a bunch of Pilgrims and Puritans and Wampanoag tribe members (who had just been devastated by disease and who just got hoodwinked into giving up 12,000 acres of their land) allegedly sat down for a feast. We do this while blithely ignoring Wampanoag descendants’ insistence that this was probably a less chill endeavor than your little brother’s second grade play suggests.
I broke my hand recently. Well, technically, I broke my hand two-and-a-half weeks ago, then spent the next fortnight icing my swollen hand and swelling my dumb head with false hope that my hand wasn’t broken.
When I finally got it checked out by a doctor, I found out there are two ways to deal with a potentially broken hand. The first way is to get it checked out immediately, allowing a medical professional to set it and ensure that it heals properly. But then you have to spend about a month in a cast.