Eat Me

Image courtesy: jkblacker

I have a problem with procrastination. I can't seem to get my act together on writing book number 2. Some delays are beyond my control—my children get sick and stay home from school a lot. Sometimes I'm busy with school-related volunteer work or I break down and realize that if I don't do some housecleaning, said house will be condemned as a public health menace. Usually it's my fault. Much writing time gets frittered away reading.

Disgusted with my lack of progress, I came up with a brilliant solution to get those pages cranking. I would not allow myself to go to bed until four pages were produced. I wasn't going to let anything get in my way. This time, I was serious. I was especially serious about keeping my evening on schedule as I furiously chopped up raw chicken for dinner and sliced through my finger.

Not to be deterred, I wrapped it in gauze and masking tape and kept on trucking. The schedule—must keep to the schedule. After the kids went to bed, I knew the injury needed a more thorough cleaning and unwrapped it. Oh, ick. Instead of going to the keyboard, I went to Immediate Care nervous about the possibility of stitches.

After a Betadine bath, I got some interesting news. No stitches necessary. The tip wasn't sliced; it was gone. I got a tetanus shot, some super cool glue stuff to make the blood clot, and a spiffy, skin-colored wrap that turned my index finger into a large puffball. As I drove home, inadvertently giving other drivers the bird, I couldn't stop giggling.

Raw chicken and fingertips are about the same color so . . .

You are what you eat, especially this evening.

Wonder what I tasted like? (Well, duh, chicken!)

What goes in, must come out so—if you'll pardon my French—at some point I may sh*t myself.

I'm serious about keeping track of my sodium intake, but how in the heck do you calculate the amount of sodium in your fingertip?

Husband: What's for dinner?
Me: Chicken 'n fingers.
Husband: Chicken fingers? 'Kay, but what's with the stutter?

And last, but not least, if I'm not a cannibal, does that mean I married one?

So there you have it—the depths I will sink not to work on my book. Can you top self-mutilation?