I cut my knee in the shower again today.
You'd think after nineteen years of this shaving business, I'd be a little better at it. But no, once or twice a week I'm sporting bits of toilet paper stuck to my legs like motley feathers.
It's a good thing I have no aspirations of being a leg model. This is mostly because my legs are, well: short. And then they are riddled with scar graffiti from a childhood of scaling trees and chasing brothers and general contact with asphalt and block walls. Not to mention the one time in college intramural soccer when I juked to the left with the ball and this (upperclass, wimpy, curmudgeonly) girl kicked the space where the ball used to be, which was now occupied by my unfortunate shin. And honestly that would've been no biggie except that she then had the gall to drop to the ground clutching her toe as if residing in some alternate reality where her shoe-clad foot could possibly be in more pain than my naked shin.
Apparently I am still harboring some bitterness over this. S'pose I ought to stick some toilet paper forgiveness on my grudge and call it good.
Right. I'll let you know how that goes.