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Friday, 25 March 2016

RECYCLING INEVITABLE INJURIES FOR WRITERS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

What the fucking fuck?!
   My right thumb was healing along nicely. Until today. I made it through most of the day. The light is fading as I type. What happened?
   If you start to run out of fingers and thumbs to injure, go back over old territory. Attack the thumbs again.
   And so...
   I succumbed to that occupational hazard of writers who struggle to defeat the papery office: the paper-cut. Aggravatingly, this slash is a good (bad) thumb-width below the slash that started this week-long chain-reaction of damage to my hands.
   This was over. Done with. My streak of bad luck slowed to a crawl of bad luck. I blame notes.
   Yes, I still write by hand. The skill may yet come in useful, here, in the Digital Age. I'd scribbled scribbly notes, and those were no good.
   Solution? Grab a slice of paper and scribble again, only more neatly and notelily. When I say slice of paper...
   The attack came with its own anaesthetic. I didn't feel the pain until later. When I noticed the sensation, I thought my recuperating wound had opened to the heavens once more. Alas, no.
   I just want it to end. The more care I take, the worse this gets. I was utterly careless with that hammer, and sustained no injuries.
   Hmm. Maybe more reckless, I should be.
   Yoda have I become, mmmmm. Use the Force, I must. Or concrete gloves. Those are bound to chafe. And adversely affect the piano.

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