Something or someone has taken a bite out of me, McGruff.
A small piece of my left earlobe appears to be missing. A tiny bite, Mike Tyson style, a concave edge running along the bottom curve of my left lobe. And in the charming words of my people from the Midwest, it stings like a mother fucker. Maybe that bit was always missing, perhaps I was born that way and the red and sore patch merely the result of a large, curious insect bite or errant flat iron burn.
It’s times like these one wishes they’d done a previous full body inventory. Did it always look like that? Has it always been that color? Was the smell more in the yeast or halibut family?
Trying to envision one of those recreations like you see on the Discovery channel (or 3D animation of how OJ killed Nicole), the kind with fluorescent blue laser beam object outlines and sniper cross hairs to pinpoint how it might have happened. Maybe Sadie the feral cat tagged me in my sleep much the way her ear was notched by the free clinic vet who took her wild lady parts. And if so, I blame my Super Friends power of reluctance to pain (see blog entry “Cracked hip and befuddled looks from doctors, x-ray techs and physical therapists”) for not waking up during.
Painted some Nu Skin - which I theorize is the same stuff packaged as airplane glue and adhesive at the nail salon that smells like a mix of cranberry, strong peppermint and embalming fluid - over it this morning.
Moral of the story, count your fingers and toes. And don't anger the pussy.