Today I scraped both of my forearms, both of them off the same door handle. Nothing too serious, of course, but the scars are quite unsightly and sting like hell. It was the dog, you see. The lazy fucker decided to splay himself on the living room floor, right in front of the doorway, like a fucking rug or something. He sleeps more than any cat I’ve ever known. And he doesn’t like to be disturbed. In my efforts to avoid stepping on the little bastard — and woe betide any poor soul who as much as touches _a single measly hair_ on his mangy hide — I neglected to notice the jutting metal handle of the door, and its close proximity to the bare, vulnerable flesh of my arms; the left one scraped as I went in, the right one scraped as I left. I love him, the dog. Most of the time. But sometimes — like now, as I sit here, nursing my wounds — I really fucking hate him.

Wed 21 May 2003 at 22:43   ·