Two full, nine-hour days of work and not one person noticed my fabulous battle wound. It’s fading now, so it’s less likely to be noticed and certainly won’t be as much fun. Bother. What good is having a 3X2-inch green, yellow, black, red and purple bruise if there’s no one around to appreciate it? I mean, I’ve been choosing my wardrobe to match whatever color is dominant one day to the next and everything.
Here’s how it should have gone:
“Dear God, TR! What the fuck did you do to your arm?”
“Why, I was shooting the bow with my dad, you know I shoot archery right? Regardless, the arm guard slipped and I hadn’t really noticed until the flesh on my left arm started swelling and oozing above the guard.”
“That’s heinous! Did it hurt?”
“Only when my mom made me put ice on it.”
“How long have you been an archer?”
“Since I was 2.”
“That is bad ass!”
“Why thank you! And thanks for asking!”
Yes, yes. That’s how it should have gone.
At Least They're Committed 
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