It's a waste for me to attempt to write a script. Any stories I write will undoubtably feature the permenently disfigured lone man as the protagonist. Proving that life's mishaps ill effects never cease.

Nothing is fair. The whole notion is bullshit. People get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars by insurance companies if they get rear ended and their knee hurts for a few months, whereas ordinary stiffs get paid squat for injuries sustained at work. My finger really hurts today. My countenance inadvertantly winces when I make a fist. The skin is open like a cut on the swollen folds. I try not to think that my settlement for reporting to work that day (my day off but another employee didn't show up) will be 1/100 the sum of others with lesser injuries--because they get paid for their pain and suffering and I don't. Their suffering disappears when money appears. My suffering continues forever. That one day, that one piece of furniture. That one slip, in that singular instant when I glanced out to the road, to see my boss picking up the bright orange triangles to warn oncoming traffic. His mannerisms peaved because someone had run over them. That one instant that I slipped and fell changed my life forever.

But no one likes a whiner. You should count your blessings they say, or be grateful (in the secularized manner) that you can still walk and aren't a vegetable and still have your finger. Fuck you. You're saying that because you're fine. This didn't need to happen. I still count my blessings--I take nothing for granted, I am grateful that I can walk. I just want my fucking finger back.