I don’t remember how old I was when I sliced my first finger – I remember I was slicing cheese for soon-to-be-arriving company. It was summer. I was … early teen or pre-teen. I sliced my finger, my thumb, along with the cheese. It was the shock first. I mean, I knew it was going to hurt. It wasn’t like I sliced the finger off or anything, it didn’t even need stitches, but it wasn’t pretty nonetheless. I shook my hand in an illogical attempt to, well, shake it off, I guess. My mom: “don’t shake your hand! you’ll get blood all over the food.” heh.

Then last August. I sliced another finger fairly badly, on part of someone’s garage door. I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t realize I hurt myself at first. I was dripping blood pretty badly, but I went right to the sink, wrapped my finger in a paper towel, and got my host to help out with some bandaids. That was pretty bloody. Looks a lot worse than the long-ago thumb slicing as well.

A couple nights ago I sliced up yet another finger, this time on the edge of a table. I feel like my skin must be easily slicable or something, because I have no idea how this sliced me up! But it did. Good thing I had bandaids of my own this time. I might as well accept that I’ll eventually have all of my fingers scarred and mangled. At least then they’ll match!