Blood pudding.

I nearly sliced my finger into a salad I was making the other day. It bled so much it felt like childbirth as it dripped onto the chopping board before I got it to the sink. I was hoping that if any of my neighbours caught it, they would put down the salty taste to a flavourful palate (my salads, by the way, are bomb. I may only have 3 meals in my repertoire, but salad is the meal to rule them all).

While I normally like blood dripping from orifices (more often than not to indicate a lack of pregnancy, oh joy!) this one wouldn’t (bloody) stop. And the, maybe second, thing I thought was, Good Lord, will I be able to type the script that was due today that I haven’t started because I’m lazy as fuck? Is this the end of my writing career? Oh shit, I’ve soaked clothes and I’m averse to washing ladies. Will they decompose and start smelling like the cast of Walking Dead looks? How long will this thing take to heal and WHY AM I STILL BLEEDING?

I had foreseen a future in which I would have to hire a PA cum assistant cum secretary to type out all of my brilliance because at this rate I was losing all my blood. #allTheBloods #allTheLights I had also thought about how famous I was going to be if I died from this gushing wound, and how thankful I was that my parents would benefit from my posthumous wealth (everyone is famous after they die, thank God I have a book out, buy it before it’s too laaaaaate), and how I would look down from heaven happy that at least someone benefited from my brokeness in real life and my death.

It stopped bleeding after a long while. New human species were discovered (by a team of all women, no less) in the time it took. Seasons (of Jane the Virgin, Young & Hungry and 2 Broke Girls) came and went. Donald Trump didn’t die.

My clothes are still soaking.

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