This delightful, delicious, de-lovely month of June for the year 2002 begins at the bottom of the page, so make your way down there
for all of the sapid details.
June 4th, 2002: So, when I went home for Memorial Day, I brought some stuff home with me. Like, stuff from my dorm room. Like, stuff that I haven't used all year but will most assuredly have a desperate need for now that I've moved it 45 minutes away from me. When I moved said stuff home, I took it up to the storage area that's right beside my bedroom. And in the midst of all of the banging and clanging around, I scraped my right pointer finger on something, causing a bit of skin to peel off. It hurt. A lot. And it bled. A lot. But I ignored it and drove back to school without a thought.
I asked some of my roommates for some sort of antibacterial topical whatnot but just began ignoring the finger when no one had any. I looked at it from time to time when I hit it on something and it caused me a great deal of pain, but it slowly seemed to be forming a scab. No worries.
And then this weekend at work, I really took notice of the thing. I had some time to sit and do nothing, so I sat and stared at my finger. And I noticed that it really wasn't forming a scab. And it had been nearly a week since the scrapage occured. And it was looking rather pink and infected. I began to worry a bit. So I asked one of my co-workers if she believed that I should have gotten stitches, and she informed me that I'm going to have a big, nasty scar there because I didn't go to the hospital. Apparently the thing was a bit more serious than I had imagined.
So I'm starting to think that I may have to have one of my fingers removed, which causes me a large degree of heartache. I've grown rather attached to my pointer finger and the way that it helps me type and open jars and . . . well . . . point at things. Plus, what if I ever decide to be the type of person who flips people off? If I don't have a pointer finger, doesn't my middle finger become my pointer finger? Will I ever be able to really give someone "the middle finger"? Now you see why this upsets me.
So yesterday, while walking home from English class with Aaron-whom-I've-never-posted-a-story-about-but-has-a-band-that-I've-gone-to-see-on-several-occasions-and-is-in-English-class-with-me, I asked if he thought that I could ever find someone to marry me if I was missing my pointer finger. He informed me that men really aren't nearly as shallow as I believe them to be and that he's sure that there are plenty of men who aren't at all adverse to the idea of their women lacking a certain digit. I told him that I'm too shallow to ever allow myself to date someone with a major amputation and asked him if he would ever consider marrying a girl who had lost her finger to infection. He said that he wasn't about to set rules for himself that would cause him to miss out on marrying the girl he's supposed to. I think I like that about him. But I still think I'll kill myself if I have to have my finger lobbed off.