This is where I tell you something gross about myself. Why? Because I can’t think of anything else to write about that I can write about and I was quite afraid I would forget the password for my blog if I didn’t write something soon.
Also? I like to listen to myself talk. Or type as the case may be.
So what is this horror of horrors? This gross thing I’m going to tell you about the dainty delicate Cami Kaos? It’s my finger, folks. My finger, the index finger belonging to my left hand to be precise, is very special. You see nearly two years ago I was cleaning the bathroom floor – down on my hands and knees – scrubbing around the side of the toilet back where I couldn’t see when I felt a sharp pinch and a great deal of pressure. As I withdrew my hand to look at it I noted drops of crimson on my crisp white and black bathroom floor and then watched as blood beaded up and then ran.
Yes. Ran…
Down my finger and my hand getting everywhere. Yuck. Double yuck. I don’t like the site of blood.
You see some time back a frame had fallen off the wall and the glass shattered. I’d thought I’d gotten every tiny piece but clearly some remained. On the floor. Wedged beneath and behind the toilet. Until I decided to scrub the floor and it was firmly embedded in my finger.
Once I got it all rinsed off I carefully removed a large splinter, more of a shard really, from my finger and then washed the wound carefully, put bacitracin on it, and wrapped it tight to slow the bleeding. Because it was. Bleeding. It hurt a ridiculous amount and it wasn’t until it started to heal a bit that I realized it wasn’t just cut. It was bruised. And it wasn’t just bruised. There was still glass in my damn finger.
So for 20ish months I’ve been favoring that poor little finger. I even learned to type with 9 fingers for a while to avoid the bizarre numb touch of the tip of my index finger.
Then yesterday as I scratched my cheek I felt a strange something drag across it. I pulled my finger away to peer at it and noticed what looked like a bit of dead flaky skin. But upon closer consideration I realized there was something working its way from the inside out.
Nearly two years later and a tiny chunk was being forced to the surface and it was no big deal to gently pull it out. It makes me wonder how long it will take for the little chunk that’s still left inside to get the hell out.
Human bodies are weird.
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