Last night, I randomly raised my hand to my face and saw a bit of blood on the tip of my left ring finger. I thought nothing of it and cleaned the fingertip. This morning, I remembered the blood and looked more closely at the fingertip, which had a clean, little cut running along its surface—not even a centimeter. Huh. A paper cut? Where the hell did that come from?
These sorts of random, minor injuries—nicks, scratches, whatever—happen to me all the time, and I never know where they come from. I couldn't have accidentally run my finger along the edge of some paper while I was sleeping: there're no sheets of office paper next to my bed, and Kleenex is too soft to cut fingers. So how did I do this to myself?
No matter. It's a minor injury; it'll heal. I prick my right middle or index finger every morning to do my daily blood-glucose test; those tiny injuries heal in minutes, leaving wee dots on my skin. I wouldn't have survived long had I been easily defeated by trivial ouchies.
Besides, I've had worse.
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