I never noticed that there are spots on me that are more accident-prone than others. Left index, second knuckle. Places that just can't seem to get out of the way. Right big toe. Neck. Nose. Right knee, around the knee cap. Forehead.

It's as if I want to spite them. Or I'm just really careless with my limbs and other projections. It's bad when parents pull out proverbs comparing you to tofu. Which would be a compliment to my complexion if it wasn't closer to the mangled, "trainee-approved" type. Tiny scars on fingers and palms, blemishes that only I can feel because I live inside of them.

Bad habit. Plucking. Scraping. Peeling. Rubbing minor burns in an attempt to melt and smooth it away. The most horrifying was my tumble at some stripmall in the middle of Montana. Scraped up my peach-framed sunglasses, the ones I thought made me look like hot shit, but probably looked as bad as Dora merchandise on a petulant screamer. Which I was doing, given the circumstance. Haven't had a cut deeper or bigger since. The scabbing was the worst, yellow with ring of fuzzy lint that dried to a quarter-sized, quarter inch-thick maroon. For the next two months it would crack daily and stain every pair of excessively tight pair of Levi's I owned. It was a very 90's chldhood.

When I look at that knee, I still see it though you would hardly notice. Histories of pencil accidents and knives on parade. But nothing large. Nothing needing reconsruction or requiring removal (yet). Stories like this are just ways of reassuring myself that it did happen.

It's likely my aversion to body modification is because there's enough that has been or will be done to my body before I'm done with it. And if I did do any, that wouldn't be me.

***

Warm weather is contrary that way. The time you most want to lounge around gives you the most time to see the things you want to see least.

Keith