That's going to leave a mark

The pointless photo is, as usual, pointless. Plus, I was playing stupid photoeditor games yesterday. You might be seeing some slightly weird stuff here in the next little while.

And that'd be different how?

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Speaking of yesterday, if anyone's curious as to how I celebrated Canada Day I'm quite prepared to enlighten you. I took pictures of spiders and flowers, I met Osama and Idi (my uncle's kittens. He thinks they're terrorists), and at around eleven I walked down the hill in my pyjamas (what? I put on a sweater) to get a better view of the fireworks. About five thousand mosquito bites later, I walked back up the hill and went to bed.

Living the life of Riley, I am.

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As I type this I'm occasionally catching glimpses of the latest arm injury. Yep, at the moment my left forearm is sporting a 1 1/2" smudge where it contacted a hot saucepan a week or so ago. It takes a special talent to burn your forearm on a hot pot, you know. Hands or fingers are understandable, but a forearm? I'm not even going to explain how that happens.

I definitely have the stereotypical lefty's proclivity for interesting injuries.

I know I've talked about it before on the old blog, but when you've been nattering on about nothing for as long as I have it's only natural that you start to recycle your pointlessness. I guess it's just one of those days, folks. Don't stop me if you've heard this one...

I have a lot of minor scars. Some of them are from silly little mishaps, some are from more serious accidents, and a couple are admittedly from moments of complete stupidity. One of them -- on the same forearm as the recent burn, in fact -- is from a public toilet, of all places.

To repeat myself a little, it takes a special talent to create a scar in a public toilet. Especially while performing a skit. In a public toilet. No, I'm not kidding.

Have I mentioned that my job is weird?

I used to be a bit ashamed of my catalogue of scars. I mean, I'm not disfigured or anything, but the visible reminders of moments of inattention or clumsiness were embarrassing to me and I'd do my best to keep them out of view. No need for anyone else to know that I was an idiot, after all.

As I've gotten older, though, I've found myself increasingly embracing my own absurdity. May as well accept the fact that I occasionally hurt myself doing stupid things, because it's not like it's going to stop anytime soon. Besides, they make for great stories. After things like that have healed, you may as well use them to get a laugh. Makes a helluva lot more sense than obsessing over them as incidents of brain failure.

I suppose it's all part of accepting who you are, in the end. Me, I'm a reasonably intelligent person who does stupid things now and then.

In other words I'm more or less human, and I've got the scars to prove it.






Wanna see?

Oh, and if anyone's unnecessarily concerned about my burned forearm, don't be. It's sort of ironic that the injury that inspired the post's title is minor enough that I don't think it's going to leave a mark, isn't it? Yeah. Sometimes you just have to blog whatever pointless thought is banging around your brain.

I won't be around a computer tomorrow, so we'll just have to see if the Toronto office has anything more exciting going on than a minor burn.




That's quite the challenge I just issued, really. More exciting than a minor burn? Good luck with that, then.

Yes, I'm kidding. See you in a couple of days.