shaver

Yesterday, I jogged into a tree and scraped the crap out of my face. That’s the short of it, and nothing I tell you about sidestepping a teetering toddler and what not will take away from the essential tree-walking nature. There are not pictures, but I look pretty beat-up. Tyla gets this sad look on her face whenever she looks at me, and I hardly got any sleep last night because I woke up in a start every time the left side of my face touched the pillow.

I also broke my glasses a little bit, but Lenscrafters fixed me right up. I think they were especially helpful because there was still blood trickling out of my cheek. I don’t know if they have a policy about that or anything, but I’m left with a strong sense that my jump-the-line, just-need-a-new-screw, thanks-a-ton cause was helped by my very visible injury.

I’ve been avoiding going outside, because I’m a little bit self-conscious about the whole face thing. If you’ve seen the clothes I wear, or the way my hair often gets, you’ll realize that I’m not an especially vain person. Or, at least, not an especially successfully vain person. This feels different though, and I’m really hoping that it doesn’t scar up too badly. In pursuit of that hope, I’ve rendered myself approximately 30% Polysporin by volume.

George — friend, not landlord — arrives tomorrow, and I expect a weekend of merriment and waste. I hope he’s up for some hockey watching, because Ottawa surprised me by winning in New Jersey, so I think I owe them my viewership for game seven — sorry: Game Seven — tomorrow night.

Oh, and I’m just going to give up on the old entries, because they’re all stale and uninteresting. Onwards!