April 12, 2011
I still feel like there’s poo on my right index finger.
Like there’s a little smudgie right there next to my fingernail; where I keep the hangnails and dried skin calluses.
I changed Hudson’s diaper over an hour ago, and have washed my hands twice since then with lots of foamy soap and really hot water, but for some reason I can’t shake the the feeling that there is a phantom poo residue, sitting next to me, on my finger.
If it was really there, I’d don’t think I’d be typing with this much enthusiasm. Or at the very least, I wouldn’t be using the right index finger. I’d be holding it up, high above the keyboard like an impish floating fariy, supervising the work of the other 9 poo-less fingers.
I definitely would’t be scratching this blackhead that is right above my lip and below my nose with such abandoned vigor.
I certainly wouldn’t be using my right index finger to extricate the remaining hummus out of the container, and then licking shamelessly.
I wouldn’t be biting the rouge hangnail on said finger, and then chewing the torn off skin between my front teeth before I savored the flesh, and then spit it across the room.
But just as a safety precaution, I think I’ll wash my hands a third time.