Monday night I twisted my ankle.

Tuesday morning it felt better.

I decided to go for a run. It was raining.

No sooner had I shut my door behind me, I realized I locked myself out of my house.

Oh well, might as well just go for a run and see if anyone is awake by the time I get back.

Two minutes into my run my ankle spontaneously gave out on me.

It didn’t hurt.

Just.

Stopped.

Working.

My run became an epic, frantic, skin-breaking slide through the gravel and mud.

The rocks tore through my palm, gushing blood and exposing muscle.

Ouch.

I ripped rocks out of my hand, yanked the sock off my foot and wrapped up my wound.

So much for a run. I turned around and walked back home.

Soaked.

Muddy.

And bleeding.

No one answered the door at home. No one answered their phones.

I had to clean my wound at a neighbor’s house.

Awesome.

For now, screaming helps.