I’ve got a bruise on my left knee the size of the State of Delaware, the result of running into a large box of something while walking in a crowd. If I had seen it, I could’ve avoided it. As it was, however, I could not see it and therefore fell with all the grace of a dropped sack of grain.
I, in the “fine” tradition of Midwesterners, was stoic about it, insisting that I was – you got it: “fine”. But when you fall and it hurts immediately, you are actually a couple clicks away from “fine”.
“Surprised” would’ve described it initially, followed quickly by “flummoxed” and then “needy”.
It’s a respectable bruise, a bruise with fortitude, a bruise that will no doubt go on to vote responsibly, come to a full stop at intersections when called upon to do so, and keep a clean oven.
This bruise is not kidding around.
The biggest problem with this bruise is the fact that it manages to be under trousers or just peeping out from under a skirt most of the time. Truth be told, I spend surprisingly little time naked - it is, after all, autumn - which would be the best way to really appreciate the storms-a’comin’ purples and greens, the raw-meat reds, and the bilious yellows of this bruise.
I suspect I’m particularly sensitive to this subject due to my current heightened and non-nicotined state.
Honestly, what’s the point of having something large and painful if no one’s going to see it and comment on it!
There’s no cake for not smoking, and there’s no cake for big, unseen bruises.
For cryin’ out loud, people. We need more reasons for cake.
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Season of the Buffalo
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