After careful consideration I have decided that it’s about time that I enlighten all of you internets about my recent physical defect. A severe monstrosity, a ..thing.. I discovered on my physical form yesterday when the family doctor removed the bandages from my left hand. But first a recap.
As you all know, young men who’ve left the nest like to shake their feathers a bit. And so do I. I shake ’em like its hot, shake ’em like it’s hot, shake ’em like it’s hot.. like any other handsome young man would do. Last Friday some friends of mine arranged a down-scaled version of the Sigg3.net 5 year anniversary party, meaning there was just us and the beer, no champagne and no strippers. Which was a good thing considering my then unknown financial situation. When I think about it now I.. well, I actually don’t remember much of it. But what I do remember is ending up at my place for a nachspiel with St. and Kornelius.
I took out my green military blanket from underneath the bed to cover the sitting area, as per usual nachspiel procedure, but when I was going to close the drawer underneath the bed there was something pushing it back. Like any other bearded man I chose the first attractive alternative: brute force. Only women mess around organizing things. Men keep things in place with will power.
So I put my weight on it and BAM!
..Thing is, in my drunken haze my left ring finger had sneaked into a vulnerable position on top of the drawer edge, only to be crushed between the edges with an impact power equal to my weight times the force of my strength. It’s just like they say in the movies: You can turn your back on your ring finger, but you can’t turn your back on the alcohol in it.
Alcohol 1 – Me 0.
I gritted my teeth like Hasselhof and groaned like a grizzly bear with belly ache. Thanks to the alcohol, though, I didn’t feel much pain after a few minutes. Yay!
Alcohol 1 – Me On Alcohol 1.
Fast-forward half a day I decided to treat my hangover at my mother’s place with some left-over pasta my chef had saved for me combined with a 48hrs Sopranos marathon. Life and my perspective on it was pretty relaxed from where I was lying on the couch, with crumbs of chips on my chest and pasta in my gums, only interrupted by my mother’s attempts to communicate at regular intruding intervals. But nothing ends an argument like the slow death of single-word sentences or a blank-eyed stare.
Until I realized the swollen finger wasn’t going to stop aching and I had my mother look at it. She’s a certified expert in the field of the human body, and I was more than happy to let her investigate after she’d shown me the certificates. After a few preliminary tests she found that it most probably wasn’t broken, it was just sprained, but I needed to bandage it to make sure it didn’t "grow back in a funny angle".
Yesterday, July 12th in God’s year 2007, we removed the bandages.
Now, let one thing be perfectly clear: My body is excellent.
I don’t have anything to complain about it, except maybe that it’s a bit out of shape. But that’s really more on my ball part than my body’s. I’m lazy, hungry and smoking cigarettes sure doesn’t help either. But I have a ridiculously big penis that would make the Loch Ness monster blush. I never had a big achne problem growing up like some of my friends did. I mean, some of them looked like they were starring in a re-enactment of Year 1349 when the Black Plague swept across Europe. And my period of Various Voices was relatively short too. So, I can’t grow a big moustache, but I’ve had hair on my chest since I was twelve. And my ass. But now this physical deformation:
It’s godawful. Look at that finger. It’s almost a 45° angle. Would you shake it if you had to? Didn’t think so. This is so horrible. I mean, I’ve always been a freak.. but now I’m a freak! You won’t believe the stares I get from some people on the street, looking at me like I had some kind of contagious STD, although I got rid of that almost three weeks ago now. It doesn’t hurt much although it feels a bit strained and I can’t really close the fist, so I’m left fighting ninja style on Saturday nights. And I can’t hold a bottle with it. It’s still too early to say whether I’ll need an operation to fix it back where it belongs, and in the meanwhile I’m shivering in the innermost corner of my bedsit behind closed blinds, only to be driven to stupefying fits of angst every time a threatening shadow looms past my window. Silently, silently, the world weeps, shedding its tears to heal the wound of my scarred soul..
So I suppose ya’ll wanna know the freakshow tourdates, dont’cha? Well that all depends on when or whether I get my ass out of work or not. I had great plans for this summer: Helsinki, Hamburg, Las Vegas, London – but so far it’s only been work, work, work. And that night at the strip club of course.
This weekend I’m watching the last four or six episodes of Sopranos, and tomorrow I’m going to a Farewell party to a very good friend of mine who decided to move back to the North. I am really, really (honestly) sad to see her leave, but it’s her choice after much deliberation, and I guess c’est la vie.. But leaving the city for good, and telling me the same day I discover the horrible truth about my life-ruining injury – A Coincidence? I think not.. *sniffle* No one will ever love me again.