in an unfortunate series of events involving a life-long habit of nail biting, an inability to properly apply nail polish, a glass of wine and the vieve's snaggle tooth, i cut my finger last saturday night.
well, it wasn't so much a cut as the dislodgement of a small chunk of fingermeat. a bringing out into the light of day that tender skin God tucks delicately beneath each nail when we're in the womb under the proviso we will keep it there.
if it were possible for the integumentary system to scream, mine did when the vieve- admittedly justified in her attack after twenty minutes of tickling- sunk her knife-tooth into the nailbed i had brought to the brink of blood a mere five hours before.
but i'm a tough girl. i wiped away a tear, put on a bandaid, whined to eF and promptly forgot about it.
until yesterday, when, during a free moment, i thoroughly inspected the fingertip i could no longer flex to type.
for all my affectations of "i sit around in satin and high heels drinking champagne all day" glamour, the 12-year-old in me harbors a morbid fascination for the many ways in which our bodies go violently wrong.
so what did i do upon realizing that despite three days of bandages and neosporin, the cleft alongside my nailbed looked more like a hearty slice of raw bacon than healed?
stabbed it, of course.
inevitably, it was a disappointment. the stream of blood that shot out and landed on the counter, the color of a pacific sea nettle and the shape of a nuclear bomb, was unconvincing. poetic, yes, but unconvincing. more oliver stone than abraham zapruder. and nowhere near worth the whole hell of pain that shoots through that damn finger with every keystroke now.