I'm sitting in my cell, I mean, cubicle working away at my computer. Suddenly I get an itch on my leg so I reach down without looking and scratch it. When I draw my hand back up again to continue typing I have blood all over it.
WTF?!
I look down at my leg. There's blood on my pants. I pull up my pantleg and I'm pouring blood out of this big gash in the side of my leg.
OK, let's examine this crime scene carefully.
I'm in a cubicle sitting in a chair at a desk.
There are no weapons around that I know of.
No one is shooting at me.
I have not been involved in any kick-fights with knife-welding secretaries today.
I don't see any sharp corners that I might have somehow gouged myself on without realizing it and screamed, "Oh mother of God why are you so cruel to ME?!!!"
There are no arrows lying around me on the floor that might have been fired by the Indian contractors several cube rows over. I'm not even sure if people in India ever used bows and arrows.
My Dockers have never cut me before, so I think it's safe to assume it wasn't them this time either.
Lorena Bobbitt does not work in my office.
My fabulous socks are really kean-o and sharp-looking, but they don't stab people.
In short, I can't figure this out.
So, that about sums it up. There is nothing anywhere around here that might have gashed my leg, and yet here I sit with my shoe filling up with blood and a trash can filled with bloody napkins.
Man, when the janitor empties my trash I would SO like to see her face. Maybe I should bleed on the carpet a little just to make it look good? And do a little chalk outline of my foot for added effect?
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