The next day, I woke up to find half of my Band-Aid hanging off my foot. If you know me at all, you know that my CDO (it's like OCD, only with all the letters in alphabetical order, as they should be :P) gives me no choice but to rip off a Band-Aid that is behaving in such a manner. So I take my hand, grab the Band-Aid, and rip it off, just like you're supposed to do, to have the least amount of pain possible.
The worst pain I've ever felt was when I almost died from an injury I sustained while walking down the street. Literally. But that's a post for another time (if you guys aren't too grossed out by this one, that is). But this pain was almost as terrible. To my disgust, the Band-Aid had taken a good portion of the skin on my foot with it. I imagine this is sort of similar to what getting your bikini waxed feels like. But, um.... moving on. *ahem*
I doused my foot in water, and then limped downstairs to the bathroom, almost launching myself over the banister in the process and looking like some grotesque combination of a drunkard, an uncoordinated duck, and a baby monkey with some sort of horrible developmental delay. I was quite literally forced to perform surgery on my own foot using only fingernail clippers, sixteen Band-Aids, and a towel. The reason for this is that A) my brain was so boggled by the pain of walking across the hardwood floor that I somehow rationalized that the quicker I covered up the wound, the less painful it would be, and B) I would rather be shot in the face than ever go to the emergency room at any hospital, ever. The reason for this is that if I were to go to the ER, here's a rough approximation of what would happen:
- An apathetic, middle-aged receptionist would accost my traumatized mother for a co-pay, because our healthcare system royally sucks (what else is new?).
- Said receptionist would ask me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10. This is the worst part for a math geek such as myself. I mean, really? 1-10? And besides, it's a completely arbitrary scale with no units, which means (as I've suspected since before I could even count to 10) that it means nothing.
- I would be asked to sit down in the waiting room, whereupon I would be forced to look on as scores of screaming toddlers were admonished by their mothers (who are always dressed for the nightclub, not the pediatric hospital, and look about 18) for being so clumsy as to injure themselves.
- I would wait in the waiting room, whining incessantly and wishing I had rated my pain as a higher number so that I could be seen faster.
- I would be helped to the back, seated in a room, and have my vital signs taken even though it's abundantly clear that my vitals are just fine, thank you very much, now can you take care of the agonizingly painful abomination that is my right foot?
- I would wait for the perky triage nurse, who is always wearing scrubs with some overly-perky design on them, to go get a doctor, and the waiting process starts all over again, except this time, the room is smaller, and the walls painted a color that is specifically designed to induce migraines.
- I would finally be seen by a doctor who would be approximately 30 years old and either wearing a tie that his six-year-old made him or wearing way too much makeup and four push-up bras (hopefully that one applies to ladydoctors only. And I'm not talking about gynecologists. Seriously, male gynos baffle me. They're like, a slightly more educated version of your classic high school douchebag. But, *ahem* moving on.). This doctor would also be arrogant and overconfident and then say something along the lines of, "LOL! Unfortunately, we're not really equipped to deal with this giant, gaping flesh wound in your foot-- but your disgruntled parents can drive you about two and a half hours away from here to get to our center in *insert your favorite town with a population of less than twenty sober adults here* even though it's three in the ****ing morning!"
A few hours later, it came to my attention that apparently, you don't just put a Band-Aid on and forget about it. Oh no, that would be impossible! You have to change the bandages every three hours or risk ripping your entire foot off again! I'd like punch the ***hole who created Band-Aids in the face. What kind of horrible gimmick is this? It's a sad world we live in, my friends. Did I mention that they even had the nerve to call these Band-Aids "flesh-toned?" What kind of racist jerk does that!? Out of all the people I've met in the past umpteen years, I have met maybe two whose "flesh tone" that Band-Aid matches. The nerve.
Anyway, I hope that was entertaining to all you sadists out there. Or at the very least, informative to all you masochists out there who love ripping off Band-Aids. Only you can prevent needless ER visits and ungodly pain that feels like a person is walking on daggers! *poses like Smokey the Bear and waits for tourists to take photos*
UPDATE: As I was limping dramatically across the floor to change the bandages on my gaping flesh wound this morning, I actually launched myself over my banister and caught myself using my hand, wrist, and forearm. As a violinist with an audition in four days, I just have to reiterate-- Band-Aids are worse than the apocalypse. We might as well just all get Raptured right now, because Band-Aids are going to take over the entire world and leave anybody who ever used them behind as no more than a whimpering, bloody pulp.