Life by a Thousand Cuts
Abstract
I seem to have an unintended calling: cutting my fingers in awkward places. I’ll be washing dishes, for example, when a thought surges, making my mouth grimace and my fist flex inside the glass it's scrubbing, and if the glass is old and therefore weakened by sinking sand, it will burst into fragments, and the water will run red over gushing knuckles that remain senseless for the moment prior to pain. Or I’ll be placing a fat bouquet in a vase and forget the razor shard on...