A vast conspiracy exists against me; I’m convinced of it. I can’t put my finger on a possible ringleader or a grand design, and I don’t know what the intricacies of the plot are, but it’s clear that the whole thing involves drunk people savagely injuring me on Saturday nights. Over the course of the last few months, I’ve learned that my bones crack with the ease of thin ice. I’m a perpetually broken man.

First was my broken foot, which I snapped in a skateboard wipeout. It wasn’t my fault, of course. It was drunk people, – specifically an intoxicated girl on her bike that swerved and sideswiped me. She didn’t even stop when she heard me hit the concrete behind her; she just yelled back, “Are you okay?” and kept on going. I collected my skateboard and still-intact nightly burrito and proceeded to limp home on the broken foot. The doctor later asked if I had been on PCP or something, for walking should’ve been impossible. No, I told him proudly, I had a burrito to eat and a little thing like searing pain wasn’t going to stand in my way.

My foot has only been healed a little over a month, and now I have a brand new break in my left wrist, once again due to moronic drunk people. At a party, I bumped into some guy and spilled a bit of beer on his shoes, a catastrophe that escalated bit by bit into a fight with him and his crony. Though I learned after the event that my wrist was busted, at the end of the fight it actually appeared that I had won hands down. What I’m trying to say is that you should’ve seen the other guy.

Telling people the story of my latest break is the worst, for they either don’t believe I successfully fought two guys and suffered no harm to my handsome face or they think I’m the type that likes to brawl. For example, I was at a Super Bowl party and this British girl, the type always full of polite friendliness and air kisses, asked me what happened. When I told her, she responded, “Oh, isn’t that mature?” I felt like fighting again, but quickly dismissed the thought, for it would’ve broken two of my cardinal rules: A gentleman doesn’t fight women, for they’re no good at it, and he doesn’t fight the British, for the same reason.

I wish I would get a cool nickname for all my suffering, like Mr. Glass or Shatterman, but everyone insists on derogatory ones. When I hobbled around on my broken leg, I was The Gimp, or Gimpy, if the person felt cute. Now it’s even worse, because people say my real name like it’s a joke, like it’s synonymous with zany painful antics. Whether it be fumbling around, knocking stuff off tables or attempting to tie my shoes with only one operable thumb, people seem to find my struggles infinitely amusing in their own sad little way. I’ve become a tragic slapstick comedian. Little children point and laugh, while people my age shake their head and chuckle at my bandaged limbs. “Oh, that Drew,” they say condescendingly. “What is he going to do next?”

So I’ve offered myself as a guinea pig to the scientific community and they’ve greeted me with open arms. They tell me there’s a new procedure that could infuse my bones with metallic ions, effectively making them invincible. Just because the doctors got the idea from Wolverine, renegade member of the X-Men, and operate out of a back alley in L.A. doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. The New Yorker has tapped me to write a piece on the procedure – if it doesn’t kill me – which I’ve already decided to name, “I Type These Words With Metallic Fingerbones.”

The rest of you can do something for me as well: Give me some sympathy and tender loving. Feel my pain, say “Awwww,” fix me cookies and milk (which I really need to drink more of), send letters to me here at the Nexus full of sweet nothings, and above all, please stop hurting me when you’re inebriated. I’m a good guy, but I’m fragile.

Drew Atkins moofoo moofoo moofoo.