elichrusos

This is one of those stories I should probably keep to myself. So listen up.

This morning, as I was walking to work, I was trying to figure out why my hands looked so funny. There was a confusing lack of glossy, and the colour was disconcerting. When I realized why, I was temporarily rendered speechless.

I feel the need to stress that, unlike most of my other highschool misadventure, this was never, ever intentional. It's just a natural side effect of bering neurotic and overly energetic, and somewhat unlucky.

When I was a teenager[1] I was severly accident prone, especially when it came to my hands. I fell on them, I'd accidentally smack them into things (I had particularly poor luck with the corners of metal desks), I'd get them caught in doors and more than once I managed to get hit with drama-school swords or art school rulers. Between fourteen and sixteen, I don't think I managed to spend more than six weeks at a time without one of my hands being splinted, wrapped in gauze, or the colour of a persimmon.

So, over the last six weeks some fairly serious things have been happening for me. So far, '08 is proving a year of extremes, things are either very, very good or very, very bad. Specifically, some of the recent glories (as well as the fallout from recent misadventure) has left me in a tumultuous little storm from which I've emerged wholer than I've felt since I was sixteen: one of the fundamental dichotomies of my self appears to have healed.

Apparently, this means that some part of me is sixteen again. Preliminariy figures suggest it to be the portion that dealt with straight posture, sharp eyes and quick guesture, caustic wit and patter, and unyielding passion.