LIFE IS ABSURD. We got it all wrong.
Want to get a good look at the dumbest species in the galaxy? Look in the mirror; that's what I did, and I'm convinced. We're stupid and we're doomed; not that there's anything new about that; individuals have tried to send up flares throughout history, but being so dumb they were generally ignored. In the mirror that morning, I was paying attention. In fact, I was all morning in that mirror because I challenged myself to accept that I was a moron, in galactic terms. I refused to buy it at first, then I thought I was convinced, then I was more confused. Finally it ended, not so much because I succeeded, I just got so hungry I HAD to turn away.
A tomato and lettuce sandwich sounded great; I got the french bread and the bread knife and proceeded to slice open my index finder with the knife. It was the sharpest knife I'd ever owned, and I knew some day it would get me. It didn't bleed; first there was just the muted noise of flesh being cut; a brief jab of pain, a red line on the side of my finger. By the time I got back to the bathroom, there was a single red drop in the middle of that line. Some ointment and three bandaids later and I was back in business. I went to put the band aids away and some spilled out and into the toilet. I just flushed it.


The sandwich turned out great and I finished it with some chips and a DC; then I went to stand up to clear my desk and I jammed my foot into the desk leg. The pain was hot, searing, and then thumping. I fell onto the bed and grasped my toe and tried to rub it. Eventually the pain evolved into numbness and I could hobble agin. I cleaned up the spilt lettuce and chips and plate and glass and napkin and went back to the kitchen. The dog came bopping along and made it clear he was hungry, so I got out a ziplock of chicken and cut him up some pieces for lunch, but the knife slipped and I punctured my other index finger with the tip of a carving knife; it bled immediately and radiated that dull throb that only a blunt point can induce. Back to the bathroom for three more bandaids.

Time to mow the lawn. Got dressed, it was really hot so shorts and sneakers, no socks, t-shirt and cap. Fill up the mower, power it on, go ten feet and I rake my ankle across a 1" thick, dead briar bush. It rips open my ankle from achilles tendon to front; three huge gashes already oozing blood and some clear liquid. This can't be good. I try to carry on, but the pain is crippling and I need to sit down. I return the mower, close the garage, go up to the bathroom and a quarter tube of triple antibiotic later, I've got 5 bandaids in place, mostly covering it, and the bleeding has almost stopped; I put a sock on to catch the overflow. So much for keeping up with the neighbors.

Six days later I still hqave two bandaids on it and it itches and burns all the time; the redness has really gone down and is now only the size of a half dollar, as opposed to the Twenty it used to be as big as; but the day after the accident, I nicked my index finger on something and didn't notice; it swelled up to the size of a dime; it looked like two knuckles, and took three days to stop itching. It's now the size of a writer's callous.

For the last several days I've had the Dropsies; everything falls or flies out of my hand. Times like these I decide to stay at home and try not to move too much or move around at all.
It's now four months later and I am resigned to the large red scars on my ankle being permanent. The limp is better, but not on cold mornings. Life is good.