Nuclear Band-aids

So, I haven't really been straight with y'all. I haven't been going on about the many ways that my body is out to destroy me because let's face it, it's boring-ish and whiney, plus it's downer stuff to read...except, well this is some sorta craziness that I just have to share.

While I'm really happy that hubby found a job, I can't do the happy dance cause I totally jacked myself up Thursday night. I'm still not sure how it happened, but, I may want to look into calling Johnson & Johnson and having them recall the band-aids. No, seriously. Either they've got a case of tampering, or my body has become more insidious than I've ever given it credit for.

First, my skin springs the trap by developing a hair bump sounds so much better than zit! on my inner thigh of all friggin' places. Don't ask me how a 38 year old woman gets a hair bump zit on her inner thigh like only her skin still thinks it's 16 cause everything else thinks it's 90... anyway, so this hair bump zit is very sensitive by Thursday, so after showering to go out, I put a band-aid on it. Not even the cheap-o Dollar Store non-brand, but the real Johnson & Johnson band-aids. cause I'm worth it, so says Loreal.

Everything seems fine for awhile, but after an hour or so of walking around Walmart, I'm sweaty, cause for some God-only-knows-why reason, it could be 12,000 degrees outside and 10 degrees inside Walmart; I will sweat like a nasty-ass-pig within 5 minutes of being inside Walmart. As I was saying... due to my Walmart induced sweaty-ness, the band-aid was becoming noticeable (feeling) to me as I walked around. We get home and I'm putting things away and my usual bopping up and down off the couch to get this and move that, when the band-aid starts getting down right painful.With that, Hubby goes out for a ciggy, and I make the colossal mistake of removing the band-aid.

Holy-fucking-hell-on-a-popsicle-stick!

It seems that my demonic sweat turned the adhesive on the band-aid into nuclear holocaust adhesive inside of four hours because when I pulled off the band-aid SKIN CAME WITH IT. That's right, y'all. Just like you hear those horror stories about kids being taped up with duct tape as a practical joke and then having to go to the hospital and winding up with skin grafts... Yeah. Well mine are obviously much, much smaller. In fact when I showed Hubby the four skinless red lines up either side of either end of where the band-aid had been he just scoffed, because in all honesty, they look like nothing. Except they're on my INNER THIGH. As in: being rubbed by cloth every time I move my leg a scintilla. As in: being pressed on and rubbed with cloth when I walk because of my ginormous size that I mentioned I can no longer hide from thanks to bleepedy-bleepin'-Best-Buy.

Skinless red lines which, before my own personal mutilation, I would have slathered with Neosporin and covered with A BAND-AID. But now I can't do that because Band-aids are no longer my friends. After a life time of trust, they have betrayed me. Nor can I cover it with gauze because I'd still need to use medical tape to keep it on and the band-aids may be into cahoots with the medical tape cause it's Johnson & Johnson brand too.

So, I can't cover the wounds, but I still need to slather it with Neosporin and sit on the couch pants-less eating Dryer's Drumstick ice cream which needs to be declared illegal cause it's so good you want to eat the whole thing which will put you into a diabetic coma, thereby making it a killer to soothe my poor-wittle-wounded self while I heal up and Hubby waits on my every need before he goes back to work...

But, no. Why? Because we have a roommate now. A male roommate. One that I'd rather die than sit around pants-less in front of, mainly because I like him as a person and wouldn't want to scar his brain irrevocably with that image, because then he'd be too distraught to ever move out and we'd be stuck with him living with us forever and ever all thanks to nuclear band-aids.

So now instead of my own personal fantasy that has less than a snowball's chance in hell of coming true healing, I get to walk around the house uber-slowly with my legs all spread and not touching like I've got shit in my drawers a Sumo wrestler all day. Oh, woe is me (backwards hand to the forehead) the mental and physical anguish that I can muster for a jury to award me millions am suffering... Your Honor. slight swoon for effect (be sure to land in a comfy chair)

I'll have to make it a joint frivolous lawsuit against Johnson & Johnson for previously mentioned reasons and Starbucks for putting too much caffeine in their double shots thereby raising my blood pressure and causing me insomnia which tampered with my decision making abilities and THAT ladies and gentlemen of the jury was the underlying cause of the nuclear band-aid incident and the medical bills incurred by the month long sugar coma from too much Dryer's Drumstick ice cream, also named as a defendant in this lawsuit.

We are trusting you, fine people mega watt smile and eye contact with the hard ass of the jury with an added slight head nod to them alone to do the right thing and award our client 97 million dollars pain and suffering. Thank you. fake ass sincere smile We rest our case.

It is ever so slightly possible that I need to layoff the Boston Legal reruns.