ham

For the life of me I don’t know why they bother using scalpels in surgery. Based on the last five seconds I imagine using the edge of a box of plastic wrap would be just as effective. I had no idea it could be so dangerous. What was I thinking being so cavalier about deciding to save some extra meatballs? I was unaware that an endeavor like that needs my complete concentration otherwise I will drag the box down my own thumb instead of neatly cutting off the necessary sheet of clear plastic. There’s a sharp twinge and then I’m looking down and only one word seems to come bubbling up:

Ham.

My hand looks like a piece of poorly carved ham.

There’s no warning label on the box or I might have taken my time. Instead I just pulled out a little plastic wrap and tugged. The plastic wrap was unharmed in this tugging but my thumb was not so lucky.

Blood started to pour out, after a brief yet suspenseful pause, at a rate that made me think I would be completely drained of the red stuff in about three or four more seconds. The blood that had until recently been sloshing around quite happily in my foot seemed to be making its way up my torso and to my arm as if some internal evacuation order had been given.

Blood was fountaining out of my hand. Not even spurting out in time with my heartbeat. This was a hemoglobin jailbreak.

“It looks like ham” I thought to myself. Not in the calm manner that you no doubt read that but in a high-pitched scream in my own head. “I just wanted to save some meatballs,” which, having read the last line you probably thought I also screamed, but no. For some reason I said this to myself in a very calm and understated way.

“I’m going to bleed out and die.” You have no idea how I said that do you? If you guessed in a whiny and pathetic manner you were dead on. Bonus points if you guessed I spoke that aloud as opposed to the inner monologue I’d been having to that point.

Why ham as opposed to roast beef?

I’m not very good with blood and it isn’t long before things get fuzzy and I slide to the floor.

When I look up again I’m at the mall. It’s very crowded. There are all these “You Are Here” signs scattered around. Dozens of them. Except that they have them for things other than your physical location. Life expectancy. Political leanings. Sexual prowess. Self-actualization. Respect from peers. Charitable feelings. Self-loathing. Each with dozens of people jockeying to get a look.

You’d think because of the increased traffic the stores would be doing well but they aren’t. Nobody has the time or interest to shop. The manager of The Gap is gazing up dismayed at the “You Are Here – Career Path” sign.

There is one that nobody is standing in front of so I make my way over.

“Ham.”

Ham?

I wake up on the floor.