Blogspot, Daoist princess.

At Leigh and Al's Christmas party, I punched a wall and wounded my hand grieviously. The breach was a long, canyon-like gash along my left index finger, its smooth bed lined with dying tissue, but punctuated by cute scraps of dirty flapping skin. Joe tells me I looked at it, giggled, and continued to tie little red bows onto the string of beads I was wearing like a very-special pageantry sash.

Later that night, weakened from my rum and egg nog exertions, I fell upon the ground and prayed for a swift end. Unfortunately, Leigh saw it fit to prolong my life and literally dragged me by limp legs along a hallway coated in dust and rancid tomato sauce in an effort to return my carcass to my boyfriend.

He had left thirty minutes earlier to smoke, so Leigh followed his nose, hauling me up through a chemical gradient of aerial canniboids. On the seventh floor, Joe unceremonially dumped me on a bed, my ruined hand coming to rest on a mat of cashed stems.

Two days later, all three sets of articulations on my left index finger look like the raw beef I use to make curry. I joked that marijuana plants might soon spring from the wound, but was secretly more afraid that I might contract something like a multi-drug resistant Staph infection. It seemed like a good idea to pour April's Listerine on the wound. Now my entire hand feels like fire. I resist the grotesque pain because I am a man, but my deepest desire is just to be held.

Merry Christmas.