I’m no stranger to the expression “sitting around with your thumbs up your ass all day”. I’ve spent a good deal of my time since my last post doing just that– figuratively, of course. I was invited to one of those weird kink parties where they do it for real once though, when I inadvertently returned the thumbs up this bum gave me. It wasn’t really my thing, I thought, butt fuck it.
That was the first time I almost lost my thumbs. The second close encounter was far more recent, and had the potential to be a lot less shitty…
It happened last Monday, sitting around in my underpants reading Dean Koontz. Hobo (my cat, not the aforementioned bum) kneaded me relentlessly, that “starving child in dire need of YOUR 25 cents a day” look in her eyes as she mewed pathetically. I thought no good could come of this, so I shoved her off my lap, only to have her caught and suspended by a sole claw in my thigh. Well, I wasn’t wrong…
So this is how I go out, then. I will have died of dysentery. Brandon told me that you don’t get dysentery from cat scratches, but he didn’t even know there were sequels to Oregon Trail so what does he know. (He argued that I never even played Oregon Trail, but he forgets I have an uncanny knack for making references I only know from hearsay, so I think he’s going to need a bigger boat.) As I started to lose consciousness from blood loss, I recalled “Cat Scratch Fever” being one of only two songs I learned on bass. Oh god, I’m going to become a Bassist! Or worse– Ted Nugent!
Thoroughly shaken, and at least 4 pints low on blood, I forgot the obvious conclusion. It was the premise of every superhero movie and Applegate paperback at the Scholastic Book Fair growing up. With fluttering eyelids and trembling blue lips, I muttered with every ounce of enthusiasm I could muster, “I’m going to turn into a cat!”* The full moon was the following evening, so I had plenty of time for the cat venom to sink in before the transformation. I was overcome with joy– this is everything I had ever wanted since basically forever.
I rushed towards my laptop, eager to share the good news. But when I booted it up, all I could think of was how warm the keys felt. I batted at some loose papers on my desk. Stared transfixed at the fish tank. Considered chewing on the small plant in the windowsill. Then it struck me. Thumbs. What would happen to my thumbs? Would I lose them? Would I keep them, but they be useless aesthetic thumbs? I spent my first 3 lives on existential crises.
Soon enough it became evident that I’d have little to show from the brutal attack, save for a scar and a broken dream. “At least you have your thumbs”, I told myself. But what good were these flaccid phalanges? I could climb no trees. Kill no birds. Just write more shitty blog posts. Besides, what would I have to say? Hey everyone, I’m not a cat and my dreams are dead. Kthxbai.
*Brandon says that’s not how it happened at all, and that really I was wincing and cursing as he cleaned the wound and said, “This better turn me into a fucking cat”. I think he’s just mis-remembering things due to the residual shock.