This is the story of my red, right ankle.

I've re-injured my ankle.
Last time I hurt it, I was doing laundry, fell down (three) stairs and launched into a major panic attack that I was going to die alone at the bottom of the stairs. This time, I hurt it by exhibiting behavior in preparation for dying alone: I was desperately trying to get my cat to pay attention to me.
I got home to California on Wednesday and was alone in my parents' apartment for a few days. My mom and sister were in Colorado, my brother hadn't made it to the West Coast yet, and my dad was working during the day.
So, while catching up on my Maury one morning, I leaned forward on the bed and tried to reach the family cat, Jelly Bean (note: I did NOT name her). As I was commanding the feline to "look over here" and "why don't you love me? I feed you!" I leaned back on my legs and all my weight hit my right ankle strangely and I heard that familiar pop I heard last time.
Many hours later, when my mom and sister came home, I started to whine that my foot hurt - but mostly to get that attention my jerk of a cat was denying me earlier. My mom and sister told me I had a contusion; I trust their knowledge as they are an on-disability nurse and a frequent patient, respectively.
My mom wrapped me up, iced me down and smoothed my hair. Despite asking for an amputation last night, I think I'm going to live ... and not die alone.