My hatchback injury May 21, 2007

May 21, 2007 Current mood:crushed

I feel like Frodo of the nine fingers as I try to use the computer with my index bandaged. It took some getting used to in order to type.

It all started when... and I knew I shoulda stayed home. But I wound up in the parking lot, heading out, when I became totally enamoured and distracted by Angelica's beauty. Yes, women often will bring about a man's destruction. But I can't point the finger at her, or the maniac with the vicious automobile.

I decided to casually lay my hand on the car, not realizing that it was in the way of the hatch back. I had just met this guy named Nathan, who at first seemed like a decent human being, yet there was something strange about him that I just couldn't put my finger on. Little did I know that all along he had it in for my right pointer, and something about me going through life with it intact just gnawed at him inside. So hiding behind his raised hatchback, he pretended to go through the trunk, and as soon as I let my guard down and he found me at my weakest, SLAM!!!

You guessed it! I immediately knew that something wasn't right. As a matter of fact, something still tells me it wasn't right. As I counted my precious digits like little chicks of a mother hen, I realized to my dismay that one was shorter than all the rest, as if nipped by a hungry fox. As my eyes focused I realized that the tip of my right forefinger had ducked out of sight beneath the wicked hatch, and there I was, like a trapped animal.

All this so far is just to soften the blow, which courtesy went unafforded to me. I ever so gracefully requested that the gentleman be so kind as to unlock his trunk. As he fumbled with his keys to the near screams of Angelica, I quietly pondered the efficacy of getting upset over the loss of my finger to the first joint, which I then considered about as much a part of history as the writing of the ten commandments.

I might have pondered a moment on the regret of us being separated, my finger and I, as we were joined in a knuckle I thought would never be broken. I might have remembered the good old times of pointing and laughing at people, those intimate moments of nostril penetration, and how often he'd scratched my back for which I'd desired that I could someday return the favor. In only a moment it all seemed eternally too late.

As the trunk popped, I retracted the bloody and beaten member, thinking that it resembled a squashed bug, dangling from my hand. Angelica also thought he was a goner, as a matter of fact, I think for a while she was a goner. She seemed to have plain lost it, and I was trying not to. At some point I blacked out and fell to my knees. As I began to reawaken I was at once regretful of doing so, as I had begun to dream of a peaceful place that didn't involve the crushed dreams of innocent fingertips, a lifeline cut short in its prime by tragedy.

Being helped again to my feet, a kind soul proffered me a joint to replace the one I'd lost, or at least to ease the pain of it. I didn't have time to smoke it though before being dragged by my pall bearers to the car and to what respite of peace my home afforded.

It was soon cleaned and dressed with the most loving care that my mourners could offer. I do not know how it remained intact, other than that it must be a gift from the gods, to descend into hades and yet rise again, being prescribed the antibiotic ambrosia of life and the lotus of Vicodin.

So for two days, I have been floating and forgetting all about my finger. The doctor seemed appalled by it as she cleaned it and gave me the narcotic goodness saying, "Don't tell your friends that you have this or they will want to take it." I told her they can smash their own finger.

And that is more than less of the tale, so send me lots of sympathy. I'm going to step out of my head again, but when I get back I'll be sure to get the message. And don't worry too much; my finger is just cracked... like me.

Sweet dreams,
Christopher