It’s okay, nobody knows I’m here, nobody visits…

I tried to do something new and controversial this weekend.

Yes, thats right. I attempted to leave the house.

Crazy I know. In my self-imposed semi-exile from the net (I’m restricting myself to half an hour a day and a whole sixty minutes on weekends) I tried to have a real, human, outside kind of day.

My man and I went to pick up some concert tickets from Surry Hills, and along the way we found posters advertising a skate-board art exhibit. “Oooh, culture! Low culture at that!” We thought and vowed to find time in amongst our browsing to see it.

However, making my way along the main street, my good intentions were cast asunder by a crack in the pavement. That is to say, I went down. I went down like a bitch.

See, I have weak ankles. It’s a part of being a ‘little girl’: I’m fine boned and a touch delicate, though right now I may not look it, being a little, and hopefully temporarily, thick through the torso.

(Side note: In a recent foray into Pole Dancing which I will go into later, I discovered this phenomenon which I like to call “Tiny Limbs- Giant Torso”)

Anyhow, I once again fell prey to my fine-bonedness, and came out the other end with a sprained ankle.

While lying on the ground, shocked to tears by the sudden tumble and ghastly pain in the foot region, I was rushed upon by a large number of Surprisingly Helpful People. All but one of these were lovely samaritians, rushing to the aid of someone in need. They bought me bottles of water, cooed over my prone form and were generally sympathetic to my sprained-ankle cause.

All bar one.

This man thought that the best way to assist would be to yell at me. “Are you alright!” He bellowed, crouching next to me on the pavement. “Does this hurt?” He yelled, grabbing my ankle and moving it from side to side. At this point I all I could do was sob and murmur, “Please don’t touch that, please.”

“You cant just lie there on the sidewalk, love!” The man decided, and grabbed me under the arm. This is where the story gets weird. In hooking his arm underneath mine, he proceeded to grab my right tit and give it a firm squeeze. Perhaps he was some kind of noisy pervert, who relishes in feeling the breasts of crying girls. I’m not entirely sure of his motivations. I feebly tried to push him off, and then just let him carry me to a waiting seat at a cafe where the staff were kind enough to furnish me with a chair and some ice, as long as we bought some coffee.

I waited patiently for a lift home, mascara tracks carving their way down my cheeks, as people walked past and stared at my bare foot, swathed in bags of ice, and whispered such insightful things as, “I think that girl hurt her ankle.”

And thus ends the tale of how I tried to do something active and engaged for once, to get out into this big, crazy world and do something, and how it all ended with me lying on the couch in a darkened room, foot elevated, watching DVD’s.

Such is life.