I wrote this for my other blog, Wrong About Everything, but I'm posting it here as well.
I like to think that I'm a relatively healthy individual; I never get sick, and I can eat anything. That's what I tell myself right up until I'm doubled over in the bathroom, whimpering.
Ihe same is true of injuries. On New Years Eve, just after midnight, I was with some friends exploring a basement full of steam engines and I decided to sprint down a pitch black hallway, where I ran smack into an iron steam pipe. I was knocked on my ass and opened up a cut on my head, but I thought to myself, see how tough I am? No big deal. And I laughed my lusty, virile laugh and continued on.
This is my head 10 minutes after impact.
Two days later, the cut was infected, I had a fever, and my hyper-allergenic scalp was bubbling and hissing from something it had touched. God knows what—the dirty steam pipe, the old peeling paint, the neosporin I smeared on the cut, the pillows I slept on, the air I move through, the looks people give me, the thoughts I think—it could be anything, really.
Because the sad truth is, I'm as fragile as a baby mouse clinging to a flowerstalk in a windstorm.
Squeak.
UPDATE:
This is my head 5 days after impact. Observe the robust texture of the rich orange pus. It tastes better than it looks, believe me.
And this is my head today, 6 days after impact. It looks rawer, but you'll notice, if you really get your nose right in there, that there's very little pus. And in my house we like to say "No more pus means no more fuss".
