I'm on the tail end of my 6 month plastic surgery adventure. I had to see the surgeon unexpectedly today to get a few stray sutures excavated that had become problematic.
The Crazy People Who Live In My Head: This is going to mess up today's workout! And this week's training schedule was already altered because of last weekend's travel!! CODE RED. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Voice of Reason: You're technically still recovering from surgery. And you're in so much pain from that new shoulder situation you had to take a freaking Percocet.
The Crazy: Your point being...?
VOR: It is perfectly reasonable to skip today's workout.
TC: Clearly, you are unaware the world will end.
VOR: You are actively bleeding from multiple incisions.
TC: It's only a flesh sound.
VOR: Sit the fuck down. Shut the fuck up.
VOR: *brandishes duct tape*
TC: FINE. *stomps off to alphabetize something*
Seriously, y'all... this is me medicated. How did I even function before the anxiety pills?