I'm leaving the old intro here, but adding this- it appears the doves have taken over my blog for their fiction. Just as well, I was doing a piss poor job of updating. They're doing much better.

This blog is infrequently updated, full of incorrect spellings, misused words, and general bad grammar. It started when I was trying to use google+ (which I've since given up on) and discovered there was no character limit for posts. If you've known me a long time, a lot of these stories will be old hat. If you plan to know me for a long time, you'll no doubt hear many of them in person. But, folks seemed to enjoy them, so here they are.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

the thirteenth story

Today's Story: When I was seventeen, and in Costa Rica, I cut my thumb very badly on a bit of broken bamboo. I realized fairly quickly that I would need stitches. I didn't know what to do- I didn't speak a word of Spanish, and I was there as part of a college class- I didn't even know exactly where I was, much less how to find a docter. One of the other students, who DID speak Spanish, found one of the farm's owners, and persuaded him to drive us into town to go to the clinic. It was about an hour in, and then, when we got there, there was an incredible line. There were people camped out, clearly ready to spend days there in order to get antibiotics for very sick children, or to have badly broken bones set, or who knows what else. Suddenly, it didn't really seem like keeping the end of my thumb was so important. The man who had driven us there was quite a rich man, and walked us to the front of the line. I said nothing, embarrassed to tell him he'd driven me there for nothing, and unable to ask him to wait in line. I have never stopped feeling horrible about cutting that line for 12 measly stitches.

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