so you find the hand sanitizer in the medicine cabinet and squeeze some onto your fingertip, which burns like hell,
and then you wash your hands thoroughly, singing your ABCs while you do to make sure you’ve scrubbed for the full twenty seconds
recommended by the Centers for Disease Control, and then you carefully dry your hands with a towel.
And then you dig your thumbnail all the way into the crack in the callus until it starts bleeding,
and you squeeze the blood out for as long as it comes, and then you blot the wound dry with a tissue.
You take a Band-Aid from inside your jeans pocket, where there is never a shortage of them, and you carefully reapply the bandage.
You return to the couch to watch TV, and for a few or many minutes, you feel the shivering jolt of the tension easing,
the relief of giving in to the lesser angels of your nature.
And then two or five or six hundred minutes pass before you start to wonder, Wait, did I get all the pus out?
Was there pus even or was that only sweat? If it was pus, you might need to drain the wound again.
The spiral tightens, like that, forever.
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