From the Department of Woe, Woe, and Fingers

I got a tin can papercut at lunch, opening my soup. The lid fell in, I went fishing, and zzt. Motherhump. It was my left ring finger, right across the pad. I’ve been typing all day, like tikka-tikka-ouch, and it’s the worst thing, just…oh, you know when you bite your cheek and a scab forms, then you bite the scab, then your whole cheek swells up, then you bite where it’s swollen, and you can’t eat or smile without oh Jesus fuck, and….

You do know that feeling, some little embuggerment that will not leave off—it might fade for a while; it might blend with the background, but it never quite goes. It creeps round the edges, like when there’s a spider on the wall, then it runs out of sight, and you know it’s there somewhere, but you’re not quite sure where…eugh. Annoying.

In the summer of 2014, I tripped and broke my right index finger. There was this hump in my living room where the carpet had shrugged in on itself, and I tripped over that. I fell badly, squashed my hand, and I should’ve gone to the doctor, but I didn’t. I said I went, even whined about it on Facebook in case Mother thought to check, but really, I took the blade out of a plastic boxcutter and used it as a splint. Now, that finger doesn’t bend.

Wouldn’t it be heinous if my cut finger turned gangrenous and dropped off? Then, I’d have two four-fingered hands, and…did you know I could play the piano? I could, once upon a time. I was good. I’d always meant to start up again, once I had my own home, but the piano’s a ten-fingered instrument. The violin, maybe—I could still manage that, grip the bow like an ape and avoid Paganini….

I’ll bet my father still has my violin. I might have him send it. I could fancy that.

Anyway, back to today. I didn’t get any soup. I was sucking my finger, trying to wrangle the bowl, and I dropped it in the sink. My soup went down the drain. I had celery instead, just…a whole stalk of celery, leaves to butt. I ate it like a rat, wee spiteful bites. Spitebites. Snip, snip, snip.

I’d give this day the finger, but it’s already helped itself.

2 thoughts on “From the Department of Woe, Woe, and Fingers

  1. You have my sympathies (although I chuckled at the “wee spiteful bites”bit).

    You could play the xylophone.

    Also, I never bit my cheek that hard, so you have my sympathies for that too.

    We have rain. And power cuts. 🌧️

    Like

    1. We used to get a lot of powercuts at my old building, but since I moved here, there’ve only been one or two. There’s plenty of rain, though. Rain and rain and rain. (Well, it IS Vancouver.)

      It’s hard to picture anyone but a skeleton playing the xylophone, somehow.

      Like

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