Flesh Wounds

Really, who needs all ten fingers? Margo from The Royal Tennenbaums rocked only nine and had a wooden one in place of the tenth. It doesn’t matter that she’s not a real person. What does matter is I almost ripped off my left pinky finger while running for the bus today. On a construction sign bigger than me, complete with bystanders and sound effects. Like bone clanging against metal sound effects and a, “Oh Jesus fuck!!”, followed by a laugh grimace to show everyone that yes, I did run into a sign, but this kinda shit happens all the time. Like how at work, an hour earlier, someone said I had ketchup on the seat of my pants. “French fries! Yaaaay!” I tried to clean it off by soaking the back of my pants with a wet towel, so instead of having a dot of ketchup, it looked like I pissed myself. Which is the worst thing for strangers to wonder about you. “Maybe people will think I sat in water. Or was stabbed in the ass.”

Back to the accidental sign punch. There’s no way I’m missing this fucking bus. I just gonged my hand on a giant orange sign. I don’t lose my awkward stride – despite the fact I’m trying to run in ballet flats. Do you know how hard that is? And I guess running in these shoes make me flail my hands? This shit doesn’t happen on planned runs with proper footwear.

The driver, alerted to the sight of me running by the sound of cartilage disintegrating against .080 gauge aluminum, opened the door and let me on. I’m certain everyone on the bus saw what happened. They saw my pinkie move in a completely different direction from the rest of my hand. I know this because a man offered me his seat. I’m sure he felt sorry for me. Either for the torn digit or the ass stabbing

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