Damien Galeone

Evening class. Three students come in late, apologize profusely and offer chocolate. The students have found this is the only way to quell the demon I become when someone arrives late. I accept the booty and continue with the class.

I set the chocolate down and play it cool. Don’t want to scarf it down it ten seconds. Well, at least not with witnesses. As I breathe deeply to invite self-control, I notice that one of the girls has a band-aid in the middle of her forehead.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I am awkward,” she answers.

When I realize that this is the full extent of her answer, I nod gravely. I understand all too well. If bleeding were a contest, I’d be covered in gold stars and ribbons and not just band aids, scrapes, and cuts. To the awkward girl, don’t worry, here are some reasons I bleed more than a man not living in a combat zone should.

In the first place, I am a Neanderthal. While most people have mastered the art of using a fork without drawing blood, I have not. I eat fast and stab hard and during a feeding I usually punch a hole into some body part that gets in the way: tongue, cheek, finger.

So I am safe without a fork, you say. Oh heavens no. I am just as dangerous to my face and fingers when it comes to eating with my hands. Peanuts, French fries, and pretzels often (read: always) end with a one-handed grope for band aids. Why one-handed? Bleeding is never a reason to stop eating.

I’m also a restless sleeper. Most people find sleep to be the time when they are most relaxed, sedate and, well, immobile. I, however, apparently enjoy engaging in physical activities in my sleep. I lurch, toss and turn. My specialty seems to be throwing my knuckles into the wall or night table. The unlucky bleeding appendage is usually a knuckle, a finger nail, or – in one instance – my nipple.

Like my student, I too am awkward. You’d think a guy who’s 5’7 (in heels) would be more balanced with a low center of gravity. But no. In fact, it’s a cruel hereditary trick that I am 5’7 with the coordination of a guy who’s 7’7. For this reason, I walk into stuff such as doors, tables, people, dogs, trams. Cutting vegetables and meat requires a pre-stock of tissues and Neosporin. I might be the only person I know who has a separate first aid kit in his kitchen.

Finally, my cat is like a furry Hannibal Lecter. This is true. Ask anyone who’s been to my house. The B Monster lulls you into a sense of calm with a sweet feline charm that draws the Aww, what a cute kitty reaction. And just as you reach to pet her, she goes for the jugular screeching Have the lambs stopped screaming, Clarice? She has lots of sharp pieces on her body, too, and many the morning I have walked out to work with a bleeding nose, a blood soaked shirt, or a band-aid over my eyebrow.

As class continues, I mentally plan this blog post, glimpsing the poor girl and her bandaged forehead. I think to myself Poor girl, it’s not going to get any better. Better stock up on those band aids. So, to the awkward girl with the band-aid and all those who bleed more often than you should – I understand. Just let it bleed.

And to show my solidarity, I open the chocolate and chomp right into my finger.