I just stabbed the palm of my right hand with a pair of very sharp scissors - a Christmas gift from my father.

They were up on a high shelf in a cabinet and they fell, pointy end into my palm.

I needed them to open the packaging of a new musical SpongeBob thermometer.

Now my hand is sore and it's not comfortable to type.

Chris says that since I can make a fist and move all my fingers, I should be OK.

One summer he interned at a hospital.

He worked on fresh frozen cadaver arms.

He says mine smells much better.

That's good enough for me.

When we first started dating he used to always talk about his internship.

Usually over dinner.

Until I told him to cut that shit out.

If I still owe you an e-mail from last week, it'll have to wait until tomorrow when (hopefully) my hand stops tingling.

Gideon has a fever. 101.7.

Chris took his temperature with the ear thermometer we already had, the one I couldn't get to work earlier this evening, the one Gideon wouldn't let me use because he wanted a "mouth" thermometer.

When Chris got the musical SpongeBob thermometer out of the package (after he wrapped gauze on my hand), Gideon insisted on the ear thermometer.

Typing "thermometer" really hurts my hand.

I'm going to stop typing "thermometer" now.