…but somehow I seem to know how to find it and stick myself with it anyway.
Take this morning, for example. As usual, I had a difficult time getting my generic Dollar Store special Zyrtec-equivalent open. So what do I do?
Get a steak knife (technically, not from the drawer, but from the knife holder thingamabob on the kitchen counter above the drawer) to cut through it as I usually do. Then as I do sometimes, not all the time, but every few days, I end up sticking the tip into the side of my index finger in which I’m holding the pill in the wrapper.
I then noticed another cut above where I just placed this new cut, and it looks like it was a good one, even though it’s starting to heal now.
Hmmm. I’m always cutting myself. “Where did this one come from?” I think to myself, because I honestly couldn’t remember. It all was a little fuzzy.
This afternoon, my wife calls on the way back from an appointment and I ask her.
“Oh, that one? That’s from when you cut it on the can last weekend.”
Hmmm. I vaguely remember it.
Oh, that’s right. I was drinking my own version of a Jager-Bomb — Jagermeister with Dale Jr.’s energy drink of choice, Amp — and…
you know, there’s a logical explanation coming, don’t you?
Now that I look back on it, I realize that:
- As a Jeff Gordon fan, I shouldn’t have been getting involved with anything to do with Junior even if they are teammates.
- I shouldn’t have been using Amp anyway with my Jager. I should have been using the original Red Bull anyway. Then I wouldn’t have get myself in all this trouble, I’m sure. I mean, with Red Bull, how can you go wrong?
In short, I tried to unblock the piece of frozen Amp so I could get to some liquid Amp and when I did, I cut my finger on the lip. It bled profusely, and I whined like the wuss I am to my wife, who is an EMT and promptly told me to quit my whingeing and bandaged me up pronto (“thanks, hon, I lurrrvvv you,” I think I said during, or something similarly silly).
All this reminded me of how when I was a young’n, a friend and I were playing catch with rocks. I think we were imagining we were playing baseball, but whatever, he ended up tossing me a curve ball that curved right into my forehead. It also bled profusely, and I didn’t whine that time.
No, I out and out cried, because I thought I was dying with all that blood coming into my eyes. Of course, it was only a surface scratch, but I’ve still got the scar to prove it.
Of course, it would be only the first of many yet to come from similarly stupid things I would do.