Post-Modern Drunk: Mjolnir Unveiled Since I've stopped needing a walker, my trusty cane has become my constant companion. I don't need it for walking around the house, but for anything involving stairs or walking more than a block, Mjolnir has helped me through it. Not bad for a cheap Duane Reede cane.
Using a cane has also brought out my inner curmudgeon¹. Giff has forbidden me from shaking my cane at her--my tendency to do so should be considered a poor reflection upon me rather than a spot on her. And I find myself constantly needing to tell kids to get off my goddamn lawn; I don't even have a lawn. It's like the best of being a cranky old man and a 12-year old boy: the urge to bellow "None shall pass!" while slamming the cane down like Gandalf's staff in the Mines of Moria has come across me completely unbidden a disturbing number of times.²
¹To be fair, my inner curmudgeon was never very far from the surface.
²In this case, any number above "zero" counts as a disturbing number.
This is all compounded by the fact I'm just about the least threatening person on the planet right now. I have trouble lifting my cat, for fuck's sake! And! And and and!!! When I returned to work the other day a co-worker decided to festoon my cane with monkey stickers. I stopped her before glitter stars could be added, but nevertheless, Mjolnir looks like it was mugged by a preschool.
I am so looking forward to getting back to normal.