The left hand is a representation of the time I tried to relax by playing Football with Chitunga in upstate New York and the sun, glimmering through the trees, blinded me and my pinky finger was cracked to the side. This is how it healed. That's as straight as it gets and I love it. It is perfect and I love it.
Nope. Last night, I finally got around to changing the 40 watt bulb in the refrigerator and when I screwed it in, it didn't light up. I though, "Hmmm, maybe there's something blocking the socket," so I stupidly stuck my finger into the space to do a check for obstacles.
Zzzzz. ssss ttttt. Sssss. Zzzzzztttt.
Oif. I felt that and flew across the kitchen. When I retried the bulb, well, it went on. All was well, but I thought maybe I was in the afterlife and the light was actual Peter's gates.
Then, I had this vision that like Spiderman getting bit in a lab by an arachnid, perhaps the shock turned me into a superhero of my own. Captain Fridge Boy! Or Dr. Fridgedaire! I tried to summon really good good to cook itself and make a feast.
Nope. Nothing heroic about the idiotic zapping. I remained a moron. Crazy the way this goes. I can't catch a break from my stupidity.
But I have my football finger. That, I truly love. It's not an Aquaman toe, but it's a part of who I am.