Tuesday, December 11, 2007

I just lost bandage in my pants

I’m in the midst of reading Vincent Bugliosi’s Outrage, the story of the OJ Simpson trial, and it’s fabulous...but that’s not the point.
No, sir.
Yesterday, I’m reading about the deep-cut Simpson sustained on his left middle-finger, and about how the prosecution was inconceivably-lacking in their handling of this as it pertained to the murders, and I take a break and wander over to my brother’s house to help him install a new front-door handle. During this process, I push out the incumbent bolt-lock and shear fifteen-to-twenty layers of skin off my thumb-knuckle against the splintered-wood of the door. This becomes a big, bloody mess that I’m containing with my mouth’s vampire-like lust for seeping blood.
It’s not a bad cut, just bloody, so I bandage it up and go about my business.
Today, I’m at the mall and notice a couple of people looking at my hand, which I’m used to, as big-box department-store-employees assume I’ll be stealing something...this isn’t whining, this is the experience of hundreds of shopping-hours spent shadowed by customer-service do-gooders who just happen to be restocking every section of the store that I shop in, at the exact same time as I shop in it. In this case, however, they’re looking at rivulets of blood as they drip across the back of my hand; I notice this and head home to re-bandage my bloodier-than-expected wound.
Re-bandaged now, I go back to the book; I read more about the incriminating cut-finger evidence against Simpson, and I see blood speckled at the bottom of some pages; I look at my bandage to see it trying to grip through the inherent hand-sweat and flaying around the edges, and make a note to change it again once I go to the bathroom, where the bandages are kept.
This eventuality comes sooner than later, except that after I’ve pulled up my pants, the bandage is nowhere to be found.
I sit here typing this naked, having incredulously and meticulously gone through every scrap of clothing I was wearing this morning, through every nook and/or cranny in my apartment, through every hiding place the dogs might have for such a tasty treat, and I’m flummoxed.
Crazy going slowly am I...

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