I'm somebody's valentine, and today is a day.
However, the boy that makes me a valentine (whom I really really really really like) and I, broke up. But we still really really really like each other. I just have to focus on other areas of my life. We swapped gifts (he got me purple roses, my absolute favorite, and I made him oatmeal cookies, his only favorite cookie), and hugged and chatted and laughed when we realized we couldn't kiss and he left. Now I'm blogging. I don't know what else I'll do today. Rent a sappy movie, probably. I did shower, which says a lot since I hadn't in three days. Gross, huh. Well, there's no one to impress.
While I've been on the internet for a few minutes now, and my internet is slow, between moving from page to page, I pick at a scab on my shin. The scab is a red, flaky island upon a bruised shin sea. I was wearing short heels (like high heels, but the heels weren't high, you see) on super bowl Sunday. I was yelled at to come quick, which called-from destination was down the stairs. I was wearing white stretchy type pants. I switch from skirt to pants after church is over sometimes. I like wearing pants over shaved legs. I feel skinnier. So anyway I scuttled to the down stairs and the short heel of my right leg caught in the pants of my left leg and gravity started me down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs is a dead end. You must choose left or right. There's also a mirror hanging on that wall, but unfortunately I didn't look in it as I fell. I was too busy trying not to die by broken neck. If I'd known I would miraculously survive, I would have watched myself in the mirror.
As my shin sled down the stairs and a whoop of a scream fled my lips, somehow my other leg was released from the culprit short heel and it shot out in front of me and landed square in the hall. That safe landing happened also on a foot clad with short heel and I'm amazed I landed without breaking my ankle. I stood and laughed. Why not laugh first if I just evaded serious injury or death? That's the best thing to do at any time. Excepting perhaps the Pope's funeral march. And we probably won't have to worry about that for a while, so laugh on.
I was safe but injured. My shin was skinned. Later I looked at the inside of my white pants and peeled off a thinly rolled, squishy piece of me. It's been more than a week and now the scab is starting to itch. At this stage it's the nastiest when fresh from the shower. It's kinda slimy and the dying skin comes off like rubber cement. As I pick at it when it's dry some of it comes off like dry glue and I hardly notice its departure. Some of it's still deeply healing so I don't wanna yank it yet. The rest that comes off with my pestering kinda helps relieve the itch.
Aren't bodies amazing?
Yeah. And this is my day as a broken up valentine.
