I'm Here Sometimes

For the last few days, I’ve been blowing my nose constantly because of the crazy congestion I have from this cold. I suppose this stress upon my nose became too much and when I was getting dressed, my nose decided to bleed. Luckily, I didn’t drip on anything important or of value. My nose was really bleeding pretty fast and I didn’t even have time to put a shirt on. I just ran to the bathroom with my towel under my nose and then I stood over the toilet and let the blood drip. Each drop hit the water and then, because of the bloods differing viscosity, some little globules would bounce out from the large drop. By changing the position of my head over the toilet water, I could control where my next drop would land. I placed some near the brim of the water, which created a larger recoil that splashed the white bowl with red dots. I’m pretty surprised by how much I bled. Now I have a wad of toilet paper shoved up my nostril. Yum. 

I’m going to reiterate my story now.

When I took my shower before, I cut my knee and was extremely fascinated by the blood. I enjoyed the blood so much that I started to take a ton of pictures of my leg and knee.

This is a collection of a few of the pictures I took.

IF YOU DO NOT LIKE BLOOD, DON’T GO LOOKING AT MY PICTURES OF MY BLOOD.

If you do, then go right ahead.

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I cut my knee shaving before and I enjoyed the blood so much that I took about 20 pictures of it. I probably should have cleaned it off but I thought taking pictures would be a better idea instead. It was strange because when I first cut it, I put my thumb over it to stop the blood and the cut felt really strange and spongy and sort of cool. I also found it interesting how I didn’t feel pain but I felt the blade slice the skin off, sort of like cutting the skin off of a peach or something.

I want to post them later, but I worry that some squeamish followers might see the pictures and pass out. So maybe this is a warning. Or maybe I’ll put a warning at the beginning of that post.

I’ve already exposed myself enough today but THE BLOOD. IT’S AWESOME.

I’ve found the punctured skin;

the place where a rose thorn

met the inner part of my ring finger.

It,

for some reason or another,

brings back memories of a 10 year old self.

I had a planter’s wart

plastered to the soul of my right foot.

I am slightly disturbed by the memory,

yet ever-the-more amused.

Like Oedipus wielding broaches

in purging his eyes

I began to stab and stab and stab and stab.

The tweezer burrowed and I somewhat reveled at the massacre;

it was cleansing.

I was an ax murderer in that moment,

and I can remember the smell of the wart remover

and the way in which I balanced on one foot

while the one I assaulted hovered over the bathroom sink.

I don’t really remember blood.

There had to be blood.

I just don’t recall red in the sink -

from the hole in my finger.

So, let’s just say that I’m a grandfather. Hypothetically, I am the grandfather of a very ill granddaughter who may or may not be on her death bed in a hospital at the moment. Let’s go with the fact that my little granddaughter has a vicious rare cancer and has just started chemotherapy treatments and is throwing up and won’t eat anymore and she needs blood donors.

Now, really suspend your reality here, let’s get this straight that I am blatantly a homophobe. With my granddaughter with her cancer and her need for donated blood, I wouldn’t find it acceptable if it came from my nephew-in-law. He’s gay.

My granddaughter can’t have gay blood. Don’t you know that that shit has traces of HIV that can’t be detected in a blood test? All gay men are born with HIV in their blood, or course, so I can’t allow him to donate! That would be ludicrous!

But I’d like to make it clear that I am not this grandfather and that this grandfather is no grandfather of mine. I’ve never met him before and my blood is not from his. I don’t know him and I’m pretty sure I’d like to keep it that way. My uncle is caring and comes over from New York to stay in the hospital and to show his support by watching the other girls and helping whenever possible. Yet, he can’t donate blood?

His response; he is less concerned about what he can’t give but more concerned about the fact that they don’t move Josephine to the specialized cancer hospital where she would get better treatments.