It's been 12 days since I've hurt myself, and my face seems to be returning to its more usual, non-swollen, shape. The bruises are starting to fade away, too, and my upper lip appears to be healing well: the stitches came out a week ago and appear to have done the trick of knitting my torn flesh back together, apart from where the gash runs through the vermillion zone. This part started bleeding again 2 days ago; it's not bleeding now but it's very sore and tingly. The swelling inside my mouth has gone done a lot, too, but I still can't eat solids very well unless I mash everything, and I've noticed that I can't taste very well, either. At the moment, I can only distinguish between 'bland' and 'very faintly sweet'.
Meanwhile, the gash on my shin refuses to scab over, howevermuch Betadine I keep pouring onto it.
More proof, if proof were needed, that I was born under an unlucky star came earlier this week when I had to go out for a couple of hours and when I came back, discovered that Leila and Manasse had both been locked in the wardrobe. This happens occasionally, although it's usually just the one cat who's stupid enough to sneak in and hide while I'm grabbing my coat, and they're usually smart enough to settle down and wait patiently for release. Not this time, though. This time, one or both of them decided to climb up to the topmost shelf, and USE MY BRAND NEW RED LEATHER JACKET THAT I'VE ONLY WORN ONCE as their means of getting there. One of the sleeves is now all puckered and torn, the jacket completely ruined.
Still, some people have real problems, and I shouldn't complain, really.