In which I risk my entire reputation for a band aid

I've already received inquiries along the lines of "What is this blog going to be about?". I thought about that myself for a while last night when I was contemplating writing a blog when a voice inside of my head said "Bitch like I need a subject". So that's the subject of this blog. There is so much completely blow-you-out-of-the-fucking-water rad shit that goes through my head in just one day. Who wouldn't want to hear about my life and my thoughts? Nobody, that's who. Because you bitches are smart. Hell, I could probably do a series about the many injuries that have been inflicted on me due to sheer dumbassery and it would be like an internet Picasso. Holy shit. Picasso isn't considered a word in spellcheck. What the fuck is that all about? He's an artistic legend, you idiot bastards. Get on it.

So anyway just yesterday I was helping my Aunt paint her garage, but it's not like normal painting. She and her husband decided to use rough pine to side their garage. Rough pine, for those of you who don't know, looks like this.


So rather than just calmly rolling paint onto a smooth wall you have to scrub that shit down in there, and trust me. No matter how much paint you use and how you try to cram it down there into those tiny slivery holes it is never enough. This shit takes five minutes per square inch to paint which causes all parties to paint in this manner.


Take that and imagine what it's like when you're on a ladder 67665765675765 feet in the air trying to paint around a fucking awning and you have a broke-ass 23 year old who isn't thinking about obstacles on the ground. I don't know if you know what a core sample is, but it's basically a jagged-ass cylinder of stone that people usually have laying for no fucking conceivable reason other than to be treacherous. I step off the ladder soaked in sweat, dripping like spongebob and suddenly feel a pain like 800 searing hot cleavers shoot up my leg as my foot makes contact with raw, sharp stone and I get a gash a good 3/4 inch deep in the arch of my foot. It can never be the ball or heel. It always has to be the tender newborn skin of the arch.

HOWLING in pain I fall to the ground and grab my foot like a mature adult of 3 years old to examine the source of the pain. Somehow even with all this pain this giant grand canyon on my foot isn't bleeding. It has just barely reached the depth of my foot callus. So I limp pathetically into the house, not even bleeding but hopping like I got my kneecap shot off in 'Nam looking for a band aid because it didn't matter to me whether or not I was bleeding. I did not give a shit. Band aid's have special magic powers. You could get your arm ripped off by a shark and a band aid would make it feel better.

So after looking like the biggest pansy ever spawned on Earth getting a band aid for an owie that wasn't even slightly trickling blood, I said "Fuck this" and went home to play Sorority Life for the rest of the day. The end.