To quote the sexiest blogger of all time:
“I used to be one of those emo cutter kids. But it wasn't so much that I was really hurting myself, it's more than whenever I would hear one of those floppy-haired waistrels start to bitch, I would cut him.”
Recently I held a private contest to determine the subject of this post. There were several entries, but only one came from a human, and it was about cutting. The rest were from bugs, small household pets, and Nick Gaudio.
I'm just kidding. I would never take anything from that guy. I already have too much chlamydia as it is. Honestly, I'm just giving it away now.
With that gratuitous shot out of the way, we can get to the real point of this post, which is making fun of people who have done nothing to to hurt me, probably because they're too busy hurting themselves. I suspect that it's one of those issues that come with having life too easy; something tells me that little Mohammed in the Gaza Strip isn't rummaging through the rubble of what used to be his house to find shards of glass to cut himself just so he can “experience pain.”
The actual topic is places I would cut myself, which is weird. For one thing, cutting is a light-skinned thing. Nobody wants to go through all that trouble and not be able to show it off at the emo lunch table. Besides, I would hate to be pulled over for having a nice car and have an officer mistake a cutting scar for a gang tattoo and open fire. So as tough as it would be, if I were to go through with it, it would be a private thing.
I could always go the obvious route, and slice my penis. It might level the playing field a little bit for the other guys, and make the decision for a would-lover a little more difficult. Because on the one hand, I would have emowang. On the other hand, they would be tied up and being threatened.
I'm kidding. I'm more of a date-rapist type.
The issue is, if I ever decide to go into penis-modeling like my coach suggested, it might not go over so well. There's always my back, but those might look suspiciously like whipping scars, and I've already set racial unity back far enough with my antics at KFC last week. But I DID really want to thank the colonel in person, and if he's not cool enough to accept his thank-you 40, well, I will take my business to a multinational corporation that cares.
I could cut myself over my heart. That would be neat. Except last time somebody had a scar like that, a friend of mine plunged his fist into the scar, from which he withdrew a still-beating, bloody heart.
Did I say friend? I meant “Kano from Mortal Kombat”.
I suppose I'll just stick to cutting little scars in my hands and around my ankles and telling Southern Christian toddlers that I'm descended from the slaves that actually did all the hard Crucifixion work.
Labels: Manual Slice n Dice