My boss tells me it’s Karma, or possibly some kind of vehicular sentience. She thinks her 22 year old Citroen van is a “French Poodle” with overtones of Herbie. I think it’s a death trap with overtones of Christine. Several hours after I told her that her French Poodle has mange, the bastard bit me. Clearly it’s also rabid. Crushing my hand in it’s unnecessarily heavy door. So now, I have a broken finger. This job is going to slowly kill me, one tiny injury at a time.
But because I’m a tough bitch (and because most of my co-workers are tough bitches and I don’t want to be the wimp), I went back to work on Monday as usual. In all honesty, the finger is not too bad, just annoying. Tuesday morning saw me hobbling around on sore hips and ankles, feeling much older than my 30 years. Then I noticed this unusual bruise.
I don’t know how I got it, but I was a bit excited. See that little puncture wound? That can mean only one thing: It’s a micro-chip implant because I have been secretly trained as a ruthless assassin for some super secretive government agency. I don’t know about it yet, because I have not yet been activated. I’m probably a hardcore ninja. My codename might be Mercury Absinthe or something equally cool.
Or as my Facebook friends believe, it could be that a bot-fly has turned my arm into a nursery. If it starts to wriggle, I’m just going to let the Citroen eat my whole fucking arm.