Hip: Oh, hey.
Me: The fuck? Why do you hurt so much?
Hip: I don’t know. Remember that pop in fencing class a few weeks ago? The one that you didn’t rest properly?
Me: One pulled muscle sidelines me? Bullshit.
Hip: Maybe it’s because you’re in your thirties now and are passing your expiration date.
Me: I am not a dairy product.
Hip: Oh, well then maybe it’s because you’ve spent most of the last twenty years planted in a fucking chair. You ever stop to think what that does to me?
Me: …No. Because you’re a body part.
Hip: One of your body parts, princess. So until things improve around here, I’m going to feel like this.
Me: Ow! Stop it. Look, how am I supposed to run like this? Or do yoga. Or fencing. I thought you liked that stuff.
Hip: I do. But shit’s got to change, or I’m out of here.
Me: You’ll look pretty funny going down the street by yourself.
Hip: You’ll look pretty funny on crutches.
Me: You’re an ass.
Hip: You don’t say.
Me: All right, clearly you have something in mind. What do you want?
Hip: A standing desk.
Me: A standing—do I look like a fucking hipster to you? No.
Hip: Fine. Then I quit.
Me: You can’t quit. You— *falls to floor* All right, I guess you can quit.
Hip: Why do you make me do things like that?
Me: But if I stand all day my calves will explode.
Hip: Ask me if I give a shit. Those slackers have had it easy for two decades. They’re not the ones that feel like broken glass. Let them fucking explode.
Me: But I’ll be tired.
Hip: Okay, buttercup, here’s your choices: be tired for a few weeks, or be a bloated, injury-prone writer carcass that gets eaten first in the zombie apocalypse. That how you want to go?
Me: But I have a desk. One I like. Where they hell would I put another one?
Hip: But that’s the thing: you don’t need another one. Just rearrange some bookshelves and work over there. There’s got to be some reason to having a laptop other than poor posture and bad ergonomics. Or you can ride the pine for the next six months while I mull over healing properly.
Me: I have no choice, do I?
Hip: No, honey. You don’t.
Me: Okay, I’ll cut you a deal: I’ll try the standing desk for November. All my writing will be done there. And I’ll reevaluate at the end. Deal?
Hip: Deal. Now are you going to rearrange those shelves or do I have to do everything myself?
Me:…This is going to be a long month.