I can feel it waggling under there. First there’s a crusty unsticking feeling, then the waggling.
Paper cuts are mild indignities: fierce bleeders, quickly healed. Cardboard paper cuts require reconstructive surgery. I think. I think they do, even though I’m not that kind of doctor.
But manila folder paper cuts, they ride that spectrum between. A sting rather than a bodily insult. No surgery but no speedy bloom serum heal either. My manila folder flesh tear and fleshy waggle has plagued me since noonish today, when I was careless with a folder that was untouched since 1995.
Twenty one years of imprisonment in a 4-drawer tan HON, only to be glanced at and tossed on the recycle pile in today’s bright afternoon sunshine. Of course it wanted blood.
I saw it happen. I opened the folder. Found nothing of use inside. No. That’s not entirely true. I saw what will probably become cooperative market toilet paper in the form of a college program brochure from back before we had email and websites and civilization. Gone. Done. Unnecessary.
I watched the manila folder float for an absurd duration above the heave pile. Watched it twirl toward my hand – defying all knows laws of sentience and physics. Saw it swirl under my index finger nail and felt the burn as it cut deep into that unseasoned, tender flesh. The floor shook with awful howling laughter, setting off fire alarms and breaking the windows lining my office as a hell-mouth gaped awfully in the courtyard…
Ok. Maybe not a whole hell-mouth but I know I heard the laughing.
So. My paper cut hurts. Wah.