I’d look better with a broken nose. No thanks, though.

Posted: November 28, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Everyone likes a scar.

I’ve got two.

I got one from accidentally cutting my arm with a knife my friend brought me back from India. I was playing with it, like a teenager does, and thought, “I bet this won’t even cut my arm”. So I tried it.

And it didn’t cut my arm.

So I sharpened it……..and then – here’s the really idiotic point – I tried to see if it would slice my arm this time.

I thought it didn’t, for a second, and then when I saw the white skin part and reveal some very red flesh beneath, I became very cold and started hopping from one foot to the other, grabbing some kitchen-towel and making my way to the nearest room in which blood stains are less of a problem to clean up.

I doused the cut in strong alcohol, anti-septic cleanser too, wrapped a whole tube of toilet roll around it, and went for a walk to pretend it hadn’t happened. It healed, but the scar was broad (AKA, a good one).

The other time, I put my hand through a plaster wall at high velocity (I thought it would be pretty cool, but I now I look back, the wall didn’t really deserve it).

As a quick third, I’d forgotten about that time with that squirrel in Central Park, but that’s a bushy tail covered in my own blood for another time.

It’s good when a scar has a good origin, like a career-wound.

I like a list of occupational injuries, though I have to admit, when I’m quite unaware of what a particular job really consists of, I might get a tad cartoonish.

In the newspaper recently, I read a story of a storm chaser (something which is apparently now not a mental hobby but something for which you’re reimbursed).

Internally, I wrote the following likely occupational injuries for a storm chaser:
1 – dusty lung (on account of so much of it being in the air)
2 – street-sign through the head (on account of so many of them being in the air)
3 – messy hair (poor souls)
4 – just….gone. Blown the fuck away like I was after hearing the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ iconic 1991 album ‘Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic’.

Careers are lives, and you want a couple of good injuries and scars to boast about on the way to the grave.

Most likely for me, presently, it is what the worst thing that can happen to you whilst typing.

Personally, I like the idea of being landed on by a whale that mistook sky for water but mistook-to-it very well indeed for a while, until approximately somewhere over my house.

More likely, it’ll be to do with posture, which is lame, lame, lame. Like me, eventually, in this line of work.

I’d like an occupational broken nose. Like Rocky.

Some dude: “What do you do, man?”
Moi: “I work in an office.”
Some dude: “Oh yeah, I can tell by the nose.”

I’ve always thought I’d look good with a broken nose, but I’m too likeable, apparently, or more probably just out of reach.

There’s something geographically historical about a broken snozzle. Like granite, hither and thither, with a crookedness that would be used in nursery rhymes if it weren’t for the fact they’ve all already been written.

Doesn’t hurt that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to appreciate bigger noses.

There’s nothing like them.

Being able to pull-off a really big hooter, and still be found cool and/or attractive, is where I want to be in life.

Nasally successful. Nostrilly fortuitous. Sneezily exemplary. Sniffily…never mind, that’s enough.

And as such, I’ve got potential, not just to enjoy my own nose, but also to enjoy it being a broken nose with has a certain…I don’t know what (but French).

The French have great noses and not to be Francophobic, but I’ll leave it at that, and the bread.

“Sniffily nevermind”.

Sam