Kerry Allen

I sliced open my right pinky finger while cleaning up broken glass. I was being really quite careful, but there was just no anticipating a shard being embedded in the crappy vinyl tile in my kitchen (it’s a rental; I can’t change it no matter how horrible it is).

The dog bled all over the place this weekend from a nipped toenail (she’s fine; she would have been finer if, the first time the bleeding stopped, she hadn’t had a spaz attack and ripped it open again sliding to a stop on the carpet; she was subsequently crated until she calmed down and the house looked less like a murder scene), and then, feeling left out of the fun, I ran around dripping all over the place.

It’s just a pinky. How bad could it be? Well, because of the location of the wound, the finger has to be splinted to keep the cut from popping open like one of those old coin purses.

Still, how bad could it be? Have I mentioned, in addition to the typing required in writing (and I was doing so well with Chapter One of Gabe’s book…), my Real Job involves typing 8 hours a day?

Still, how bad could it be? What’s under that finger, the semicolon? I probably type that once a day. No crisis. It’s not like it’s my left pinky, which has to cover the A. That’s a vowel, dude. It gets some use.

Enter. Enter is also under that finger. Enter gets a little use.

And also P. P is a surprisingly popular letter in my line of work.

The slash. In the ordinary course of events, nobody uses that key unless you’re manually entering an extended web address. Well, at the Real Job, I heavily use a “word expander” (which is what it sounds like—why type “Thank you very much for allowing me to participate in her care” when you can type “tybf” and be done with it?), and all of my addresses, headings, and things with special formatting are preceded by the humble slash.

In other words, I have developed an entirely new appreciation for my poor little pinky finger as I inefficiently peck away with my short-a-digit right hand.

Treat your pinky well. Take it out to lunch. Get it a massage. Kiss it tenderly goodnight and tell it you love it.

Don’t wait until it’s too late, like I did.  **sob**

Update 9/20: Skin sealed enough to remove splint. No pain with range of motion. Also no pain with being jabbed with a pin.

Nerve damage! Yay!

The outer half of my pinky finger from the last joint to the tip will perpetually slumber. Ah, well. Messing with the line of demarcation will keep me amused while waiting in lines. (”I can feel it… and now I can’t. Whee!”) (I’m easily amused.)

Going out later to buy plastic cups, since I really can’t afford to lose a greater percentage of my fingers, which are responsible for my livelihood, and I am far more freaked out by my zombie pinky than I’m letting on…