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It has come to my attention that I haven’t shared the fact I’m now wearing a cast over my ankle. It would appear that my foot problems weren’t fully explained by the tendon rupture. According to my newly acquired orthopedic specialist, the fact my peroneal tendon hurts without any visible damage, but my ankle is relatively mild even with the rupture means she wants to isolate further. The cast is meant to totally immobilize my ankle and see if something hurts less in a month. So, on the 29th of June, I get the cast removed and will probably be scanned a couple times to see if the tendon has improved.

“We can be as honest as we are ignorant. If we are, when asked what is beyond the horizon of the known, we must say that we do not know.”

– Robert G. Ingersoll

To some, the commonest interpretation of Agnosticism places it somewhere between Atheism and various types of Theism, of which Judaeo-Christian sects, again, comprise the primary cognitive focus. But it is this very misinterpretation within the traditional lexicon which corrupts the original and intended meaning to merely represent a weaker branch of Atheism. In truth, Agnosticism is merely an honest statement of ignorance, and in its strongest forms, an adamant refusal to arrogantly claim knowledge where it is otherwise unavailable. In part, it’s the predominance of Atheism and Christianity which marginalizes an agnostic stance, even when they’re mutually compatible concepts. This unfortunate tendency of individuals to uncritically accept incomplete lore cheapens all belief systems into being nothing but proximal cognition by inheritance.

Well, after my MRI on Monday, I resigned myself to a waiting game while the radiologist perused the incomprehensible slices of my foot before distilling them into a written report for my esteemed podiatrist. Today, I ventured once more to my Podiatrist’s office to receive, hopefully, good news. Sadly I, like a horny teenager trapped in an nudist colony composed entirely of ponderously obese men, was destined for frustration and disappointment. I’d gone prepared to hear two kinds of diagnosis: that I mysteriously acquired a bad sprain, or that I’d horribly disfigured the contents of the fleshy attachment at the end of my leg and needed surgery.

My right foot is a piece of garbage. No, really. Since my teens, every once in a while, through some mysterious transformation enacted, doubtlessly, by clamoring minions of the underworld, becomes an agony generator equaled only by the presence of my Ex. But even I admit that, after years of DDR stomping, years more of wearing Nike Frees to strengthen various muscles, evidence might indicate healing or time or even luck had rendered that particular foot “normal.” Really, I should have realized: it was merely, like a bird waiting over your favorite parking spot, biding its time.

Jen, a more avid Facebook advocate than I, posted my malaise yesterday, so I figured it only fair I provide a more thorough explanation as to what actually happened Saturday and Sunday. What am I alluding to, you ask? This weekend, I spent Saturday and most of Sunday at Naperville’s illustrious Edward hospital, and this time, it wasn’t because of my heart!