Insane Logic
There's a hickey on my arm.
How it got there has nothing to do with meeting a guy, but how hungry I was that morning. Because I was ravenous. I was ravenous and the sausages I ate happened to be at least a week past their "Sell or Keep Refrigerated By" date. I ate it because I had already caused the house to smoke up and I felt obligated to make an extremely smokey apartment with an extra sensitive fire alarm mean something.
It takes about half an hour before I start to feel concern (mainly because the initial hunger is gone). I think about tape worms and various bacteria and those damn "Eaten Alive" documentaries. So I come up with a plan. Thirteen years of public education and one year of college and I come up with this:
I'm going to get drunk.
Well, that's the conclusion anyways. The solution itself is that I'll disinfect my stomach--doubtlessly already teeming with bacteria--with ethanol, aka drinking alcohol. See, alcohol kills bacteria by changing the solubility of the lipids in its protective outer membrane, eventually breaking it apart and allowing the alcohol to denature the proteins inside the bacteria.
This theory is a solid one, if not it's application, thus I go to my pantry (it's college stocked) and go for the bottle that's marked "DANGER: FLAMMABLE". This is the stuff you drink when you're too lazy to get drunk the normal way. Take one shot of this and you're set, as well as tempted to breath on a match, no matter how inadvisable.
So under the flimsy context of celebrating my employment (and at $12.50 an hour, non-taxed, it's not so much flimsy as wholly necessary), I pour, drink, and kiss those microorganisms goodbye. Their deaths taste like gasoline mixed with rubbing alcohol. My triumph however, is very sweet indeed.
My brain decides to kick in another piece of extremely good thinking and its off to the hot tub with me. A dip in temperatures higher than your average body temp and the cells of bacteria in your body will go through lysis and implode on themselves. My roommate also decides that a second round of alochol chemo is in order and whips up some margaritas for our spa-side therapy.
So there I am in the spa, soused out of my mind, staring at the inside of my arm thinking, How easy is it to give myself a hickey?
The answer is very easy and semi-pathetic, but I don't have dysentery so suck it, world!