Writing did not happen yesterday.

My new avoidance behavior, which was astonishingly successful, is this: attempt to cut off the end of my left forefinger with a pipe-cutter. I feel very clever and original.

Our pipe-cutter works like this. There is a ratcheting handle that, over eight increments, closes a blade on the pipe and cuts through it. It cuts in slow, slow motion. Seeing yourself threatened by this tool is like seeing yourself threatened with being run down by a land tortoise on seconal.

:looks bleakly at bandaged finger:

If, however, one is cutting off the uneven end from a length of pipe, and one has the short side of the pipe on the left and the tool in the right hand, it becomes possible to hold the short side of the pipe to steady it, and casually slip a finger into the pipe.

And ratchet.

And ratchet.

One more time.

And —


To open this tool, one must pull strongly on both handles. Or, as I discovered, pull with the right hand and push with the foot. Then one must have Bridgette come over at a run and help force the blade out of the pipe, where it is holding a finger captive.

The bone in my finger kept me from losing a fingertip. Amazingly, I can type, although I was unwilling to risk it last night while things were still throbbing. I go now to see how many words I can manage this morning. My goal is 600 today.

9 thoughts on “Scoreboa//”

    1. In fact, it was more “AUGH! I can feel the bone in my finger!” than “Yeeeouch”, but you are, in essence, on target.

  1. This falls firmly in opposition to one of the subclauses of the Prime Directive. Please be careful with all your fiddly bits.

    1. I have had pointed out to me my gross negligence in keeping the Prime Directive. Bridgette’s sympathy was manifest in her every movement. She stalked around me as I applied direct pressure, working her jaw and obviously trying not speak. Finally, a few words pushed themselves through her clenched teeth.

      “What … could possibly … make you ….”

      I thought I understood where she was going. “Stupidity.”

      She seemed largely, if incoherently, in agreement with my assessment.

      While I was in bandaging, Othello noted, “I can’t really talk too much trash about this. It’s the kind of thing I might have done.”

      With a level gaze of pure malevolence, Bridgette said, “Then you’re an idiot, too.”

      So. Lesson learned. Don’t injure people important to the redheads. That would include me.

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