Nasty sharp things.
I think I may have had a pretty warped mind when I was little, I remember being confused a lot anyway (no change there, interestingly). Just to set the scene, so to speak.
At about age 2, I decided it was time I started shaving. I had observed the big fat one's (aka Dada's) movements and thought I could replicate tehm quite accurately.
I was just finishing the left cheek (I never understood you were actually removing hair) when in walked mama, and my guilty stomach lept as I remembered the fateful line 'blah blah shaving razor blah blah bad. No blah.'
My face ached less than my tanned hide, and age 26, I still bear the scar on my lower lip. No beardy repurcussions though, thankfully.
And at age 5, walking home with my mum, I noted to my mother that a certain plant looked as if it had velvety leaves. It was one of those plants with white fluffy flowers on long brown stalks and grey-green, thin, razor-sharp leaves. My mum warned me off such things, and I remember being verrry pissed at her for some reason and so decided I knew better. Clasping one of those aforementioned bastard leaves in each hand, I ran the length of it through my clenched fists. And then I marvelled at the effect that I was squeezing something to death in my fist, which was actually brought about by my hand pissing with blood. I didn't hurt (AT THE TIME) because the leaves are so sharp. My hands throbbed for a week, but on the plus side I started a craze for wearing a bandage on each finger.
Every cloud...
(spida, Mon 8 May 2006, 10:32, Reply)