l i l e p h y t e


April 1st, 11:07 | Boy puts up with trivialities... sucker!

So late last night, on the phone with Boy (because I'm kinda soppy and girly that way, and seeing as how we're a PSC and all, I was on the phone with him as my sort of "reward" for being good and studying physics, not that you needed to know any of that) I was bitching about this scratch on my hand.

(On a side-note, I'm just going to interrupt that we were also talking about the whole online journal thing, and how, even if he read mine, he probably wouldn't want to, because it'd be kinda tedious seeing as how lots of it is highly repetitive with stuff I tell him, or whatever. Or just plain trivial.)

Anyway, so the scratch on my hand. A possibly-little-known fact about me (yeah, yeah, I'll make myself one of those factoids pages one of these days) is that I'm paranoid and vain about my hands. I mean, my hands aren't particularly striking or anything, but I'm spoiled as ass, so they're pretty soft, and if I have the chance, I will put hand cream on compulsively to keep them that way. (You can imagine what my lab course in orgo was like last year -- 6 hours in labs a week, constantly washing shit in organic solvents (i.e. acetone); you should have seen the goop I slathered on when I got out of there at night.) So, yes. Very vain about hands, just call me Meg.

So I was a little miffed to wake up on Saturday with a very clean, very sharp-looking scratch, about an inch and a half long on my right hand, with no idea where it came from. (There's nothing particularly sharp or scrapey next to my bed, and sadly my life isn't interesting enough that it could have been the result of a drunken brawl or anything of that nature Friday night.)

Over the past couple days, it's tapered in the ends a bit, turned an angry shade of red and started pushing up that crunchy, scabby crap that usually comes off to reveal scar tissue. Scar tissue. Now, I do kind of panic when I'm looking at other peoples' injuries ("AAAAHHHH!!! You're bleeding!!!!" "Dude? It's a paper cut," "AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!"), and I'm not saying I'm a big fan of pain, but I'm okay with minor injuries -- and the scars they leave -- on me. Except on my hands. My hands!! I spend ridiculous amounts of time slathering bizarre chemical goo on them so they'll be soft and pliable, and smooth, and now, I wake up on Saturday with The Phantom Scratch and there's going to be a scar!?!

Needless to say, I'm somewhat miffed. I mean, not really. I'm not quite that vain. Yet. And it would be kinda cool to have one thin little line, as scars go. I mean, it's not like there's the remains of serious manglage or anything. But. It's going to take some mental adjustment.

The Boy, in all his infinite wisdom, after being subjected to the pitiful sound of me whining at him about all this last night, thought to console me with the statement "Well at least you'll have something to talk about." Let's analyze this, shall we?

1 - I am never at a loss for something to talk about. Never, ever. And if he'd thought about it, The Boy would probably realize that he is acutely aware of this fact.

2 - Having a scar on one's hand, while theoretically providing cool story-telling opportunities, fails to fulfill this function when your story is "So dude, I woke up one Saturday morning and low and behold! I was marked!"

The Boy, knowing what a fountain of inspiration yours truly is, *cough*, then suggested that I could always just make up a story about the scar. So my beloved, who puts up with my whining, and makes vain efforts to try to console me (he's so cute!) and assures me that he loves me despite my now-asymmetrical (or, well, more asymmetrical) hands wants me to go to Hell.

Heh. It must be very trying to be enamored of me. Point and laugh at the Boy, everyone, point and laugh. (Then back the fuck off.)


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