See this?


This my arm scar. It's the only scar on my hands or arms.

"oh geez, Saturday," you may be saying, "boring-o-rama. why are you talking about that little tiny arm scar? can't you make up something better if that's all you've got?" Yes, my friend, i could. But it's the onliness of this armscar that makes it interesting. I've seen some action in my day. I've fallen from high places onto gravel. I've climbed gnarly trees and gotten itchy treeinfections. I've been set on fire twice, and then i played capture-the-flag on my fire wounds. I've been in knife fights, some of them with other people. I've undergone ritual scarification. And it's all washed off, it's all healed up and gone away, except for this little tiny armscar. "Heck then," you may be saying, "where'd you get it? Saving that baby from a 15-foot-long lasershark? Rescuing those drugged-up Indian men on the freeway? Grape bite?" Oddly no. It's from playing with a foster kitten. It didn't even hurt or bleed at the time.

Thank you, life. Thank you for reminding me that it's more important to keep healing memories than violent ones. It's more important to remember that i am the kind of person who helps kittens grow up healthy and happy than that i'm the kind of person who allows people to set me on fire. Getting set on fire is flashy, fascinating in a hard, sharp way, but it doesn't make you happy. Fostering kittens is awesome.

Life writes on you. Scars are like sentences. My arms are revisionist history, a really helpful one.