It's blood, Jessica. It's blood.
On Friday the 13th I cut open my hand trying to gouge hardened candle wax out of the bottom of a thin glass luminary into the kitchen trash can with a butter knife. The luminary, of course, shattered. It was pretty neat. I had just cleaned the entire kitchen so the huge arc spray of blood from the trash can to the place where I knew there was a towel hanging was extra impressive. The butter knife, thrown mindlessly at the moment of injury, lay perfectly in the sparkling clean sink with a single dramatic film noir drip of blood going down it. For the first time in recorded history, I felt inclined to receive stitches for a cut and after the bleeding was stemmed enough to allow for quasi-driving, I went to the walk-in clinic and they were very kind and sewed up my hand for me. Now I have a hideous tiny spot on my hand under a magic bandaid. Every time I have to change the bandaid, I have to look just to the left of the scary spot to reposition the bandaid without seeing. I can't see it. I don't mind the cut. I don't mind seeing a cut. I mind stitches. I mind them very much. They make my stomache do rolls, promising fainting, threatening vomiting. Sometimes I make Chad do it. I joked that I was going to make Jaden do it. Jaden ran away. Chad said "It looks just like a little spider!" Three more days until they take it out and I can breathe again.
When I was eleven I cut open my hand. I was fashioning my final halloween costume, quite an undertaking, involving turning a dishwasher box into a car with opening hood for trick or treat placement when I put an x-acto knife through my hand somewhere. I bled a lot and almost passed out. I told no one. I just bandaged it up and hoped for the best. There seems to be a theme with that, with youngsters hurting themselves and not telling their parents. Chad once completely dislocated his arm and didn't tell his parents. They only figured it out after eventually realizing he had stopped using that arm.
That halloween costume was pretty awesome. I wore it using suspenders and instead of saying "Trick or Treat" I just honked my horn. I'd lift the hood and they'd throw in the candy. This all worked pretty well until I'd hit a few too many houses and the front of my rig sunk lower and lower and lower to the ground. I should have added a trunk and alternated hood and trunk, house to house. I could have even put Foxy Grandma back there or something.
When I was eleven I cut open my hand. I was fashioning my final halloween costume, quite an undertaking, involving turning a dishwasher box into a car with opening hood for trick or treat placement when I put an x-acto knife through my hand somewhere. I bled a lot and almost passed out. I told no one. I just bandaged it up and hoped for the best. There seems to be a theme with that, with youngsters hurting themselves and not telling their parents. Chad once completely dislocated his arm and didn't tell his parents. They only figured it out after eventually realizing he had stopped using that arm.
That halloween costume was pretty awesome. I wore it using suspenders and instead of saying "Trick or Treat" I just honked my horn. I'd lift the hood and they'd throw in the candy. This all worked pretty well until I'd hit a few too many houses and the front of my rig sunk lower and lower and lower to the ground. I should have added a trunk and alternated hood and trunk, house to house. I could have even put Foxy Grandma back there or something.