I have a scar right beneath my nose from when a Datsun lunged across the room with incredible speed and ripped my upper lip off. A plastic surgeon put 27 stitches in that top lip.
I hated on that breed for years… on that dog for biting me. But now… I reckon he knew exactly what he was doing… and if I were a dog… knowing who I was back then, I can hardly blame him.
Scars. From someone who puts it much more eloquently than I just did:
The hum of the window A/C unit behind me almost carries me into a stupor.
I pick my head up, stretching it backwards hoping for a few crackles and pops, and blink a little harder than I normally would. I can feel my contact lenses crying out for some moisture, but they’re going to have to wait. It’s a Monday morning, and it doesn’t matter how well I slept Sunday night, it’s hard to wake myself up.
I yawn, and open my laptop, only to find the same blinking cursor that caused me to close it in the first place. What do I have to say? Anything? I lay my fingers across the keys, and look down. Fingers that have been in some beautiful, scandalous places. Fingers that are constantly reborn, with new layers of skin, and new fingernails every so often. The only things that stay the same are…
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