I think an amputation is in order.

I have incurred a writing injury. I'm not sure exactly what the problem is. It's my cuticle. ("Oh, doctor! Say it's not so! How long do I have?") A few days ago, I was paring my nails, if paring is the word I am looking for, and may have clipped the cuticle of my right pinkie-ring finger too close or something. I only realized that it was bleeding and noticed when I noticed it looked like I was typing on Charlie Manson's keyboard. Currently, I don't know that the intense pain that I experience every time I want to type the word "I" is because of exposed nerves or because it is infected. I think that it is staph--you know, the pimple bacteria! Only in my finger. For some reason, staph hurts like a bitch. So, liquid bandage it is, my friend.

I have a secret. I like looking at girls on the Internet. Not just any girls, mind you. The girls who are trying to sell me things. Take for instance, this girl, who strikes me for some reason as especially intelligent:

You are going to show me your tatas, aren't you, you sexy flirt? Well, I have too much respect for you, and quite frankly, I'm a little intimidated by the trampolinic qualities of your bosom. Kids get hurt on those things every year!

Also, why do I have the feeling that "tru" is not an accurate description of those?

By far, the most intriguing of the women I regularly see on the Internet is the girl who I am positive is writing me an email right now. If she would only hit send:

Hey, Yahoo! girl, aren't the people on the Internet so phony? When she is not at the library, where she is in charge of what in Texas would be considered the "obscene" literature, she is at home, where she collects antique radios and updates her blog: "Tales from the stacks!" Nummy. Sure it's a little strange that you sit around the house wearing a corsage, but I imagine that is one of the little quirks that will grown on me. We'll have all sorts of little inside jokes that our friends will not understand but will allow us to talk about our filthy escapades in public. Let me guess what you are drinking: 2% latte with 2 sugars. Am I right? You know I am.

Which gets me thinking about an entirely new category of women. Women who are known by the name of the products they sell. Take for instance, the Noxema girl, who has haunted me for ages:


GET OUT OF MY HEAD NOXEMA GIRL!

It would never work. My grandmother used Noxema, and every time I smelled you, I would have a flashback to childhood, and I might even call you grandma, which would be weird. You see, Noxema girl now works for the CIA's Remote Electronic Torture Program. So stop trying to control my mind by beaming images of yourself into it electronically! That's illegal, I'm sure!

HJ