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‘Tis only a flesh wound

You know how buying a house makes you all suspicious? Any little new sounds means the plumbing’s going to explode and shoot you out the top of the chimney. The pseudo-drawer that covers up your kitchen sink falls off and stabs you in the shinbone and you think your kitchen is out to get you. You know, those sorts of things?

This morning I was walking around, still in my pajamas, and happened to pass a mirror. When I looked at my reflection, in said mirror, I saw what alarmingly looked like a gun shot wound on my chest. Like enough blood leaking through my clothing to make me look a material witness in the TV series 24 right after they get shot, but before the realization that if they finish their sentence, the nation will be saved in 5 minutes instead of 24 hours and then the show would be over.

Get this. I didn’t panic. It’s good to know now how I would react if I actually did get shanked by an invisible gangsta while enjoying my morning oatmeal, only to realize this had gone down ten minutes after it happened. I would just calmly check to see whether it was blood…or a chocolate chip that I had lost during my morning trail mix binge that had melted as it was nestled close to my chest.

 Now, if I ever end up in prison, I’ll have a hardcore shanking story to help me fit in.

“Yeah, fool. I got shanked in the heart by a rogue chocolate chip. Them suckaz be sneaky.”

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