So there I was, shopping in Barnes & Noble when I chanced upon the red discount bin that many of you are probably familiar with; often times this bin is simply filled with items that no one wanted to begin with (a book on "Disco-knitting or a small "do-it-yourself" zen rock garden kit)... but they were on sale, so I chanced a look. Lo and behold, there sat a stack of ... Green Monarchs! Discounted at 75% off! Not only were they incredibly low priced at 2$, normally 10$: I wasn't even going to have to pay for shipping! The glorious realization gripped me, shortening my breath and shivering my spine. Leaning slowly over the bin, my eager hands gripping the edges, I stood poised as if a mad scientist surveying his newly created army of minions, my soft cackle drawing the concerned gaze of various passers-by. This is where happy stories end, where valiant knights are allowed to revel in the spoils they gained by slaying the dragon (or at least, by venturing out of the house on a weekend)... but alas, dear reader, it was not to be: fate had other plans. (continued below)...
As the common nerd doth hasten his step toward the films of heroes released at mid of night, so too, I, in the zeal of my cherished and specialized passion, hurried home in order that I might breathe life into those cards, making them whirl, twist and dance through that noble art of card flourishing, while also working to make them change suddenly and bewilder the eye, through the craft known as ma-jeek. Yet before practicing those forbidden techniques known only to select tribes of the Himalayas (and certain Holy Men of the Far East... and people with the internet...), I thought it right that I set about and accomplish the most mundane and earthly of all tasks, washing dishes, as those who raised me insisted on instilling within me the ancient adage "Work before Pleasure." Who knew that in practicing the principle of this pure proverb, I would be betrayed, like the unsuspecting fish, snared by the lure's charm?
(injury picture made smaller to minimize squeamish factor)
While reaching my hand into a glass to scrub away its inner filth, the vessel shattered, and the shards of misfortune alighted upon my poor limb; soapy water was mingled with blood that day, and no cleanliness was to be found in those dark waters of calamity. Like Skywalker of old, I too clutched my wrist and cried out, but it was not a newfound relative which added to the agony, oh no, rather the realization of isolation from my cards... and I.
For it was not 52 cards that greeted me that day, but rather 5 sutures administrated by the doctors own 2 hands. All nimble skill which I had practiced for years counted for naught, and the searing pain which seemed to be administered by the own pokers of Hades kept me from practice.
How right was Van Gogh to remark that depression is the color of dishwater, for who knew that only a sink of dishwater could quench my fiery passion, and drown my desire to handle cards? Yet, determined to make the best of it, I set upon a project once my hand had healed properly, and thus created something out of the woe that befell me, which, I surmise, would never have otherwise been born were it lacking the Muse of Pain as its own mother.
To my fellow card handlers and readers, I bid you, take care of your hands, leave the dishes for someone else to do, and always look for an opportunity to make good out of a bad situation.
Regards, Alexander
As the common nerd doth hasten his step toward the films of heroes released at mid of night, so too, I, in the zeal of my cherished and specialized passion, hurried home in order that I might breathe life into those cards, making them whirl, twist and dance through that noble art of card flourishing, while also working to make them change suddenly and bewilder the eye, through the craft known as ma-jeek. Yet before practicing those forbidden techniques known only to select tribes of the Himalayas (and certain Holy Men of the Far East... and people with the internet...), I thought it right that I set about and accomplish the most mundane and earthly of all tasks, washing dishes, as those who raised me insisted on instilling within me the ancient adage "Work before Pleasure." Who knew that in practicing the principle of this pure proverb, I would be betrayed, like the unsuspecting fish, snared by the lure's charm?
(injury picture made smaller to minimize squeamish factor)While reaching my hand into a glass to scrub away its inner filth, the vessel shattered, and the shards of misfortune alighted upon my poor limb; soapy water was mingled with blood that day, and no cleanliness was to be found in those dark waters of calamity. Like Skywalker of old, I too clutched my wrist and cried out, but it was not a newfound relative which added to the agony, oh no, rather the realization of isolation from my cards... and I.
For it was not 52 cards that greeted me that day, but rather 5 sutures administrated by the doctors own 2 hands. All nimble skill which I had practiced for years counted for naught, and the searing pain which seemed to be administered by the own pokers of Hades kept me from practice.
How right was Van Gogh to remark that depression is the color of dishwater, for who knew that only a sink of dishwater could quench my fiery passion, and drown my desire to handle cards? Yet, determined to make the best of it, I set upon a project once my hand had healed properly, and thus created something out of the woe that befell me, which, I surmise, would never have otherwise been born were it lacking the Muse of Pain as its own mother.
To my fellow card handlers and readers, I bid you, take care of your hands, leave the dishes for someone else to do, and always look for an opportunity to make good out of a bad situation.
Regards, Alexander
