My finger adn other painfurl subjects

The end segment (for want of a more technical term) of the index finger of my left hand is still attached to me a little more than 24 hours after the incident with the Office Safe. It is, however, an increasingly 'interesting' colour, swollen and tender. I'm convinced now that I haven't broken it, but that's a minor miracle. If much more of my finger had still been inside the safe when I slammed the door shut that bit of the finger and I might be exploring a new and rather more 'long distance' relationship.

As it is that entire last segment is clearly filled with blood, as if that bit of my finger is one entire nascent blood blister. And if I exert a very little pressure on the already clearly darkened nail then it darkens up. I guess I'm going to lose the nail. It would be a bigger deal if I had any nails worth mentioning but I was cursed with nails that are soft and split all too readily so I'll get along.

After the revelation a few days ago that I'm actually married to a fat hairy version of Mr Bean another: I'm a cold heartless bitch who's not only never been in the sway of true love (or possibly even real passion) but actually can't be. Maybe you and I should be a whole lot more sympathetic towards the poor Fat Bastard who found himself lumbered with such a physical and emotional empty space.

I say this because I read the following in a profile and my response wasn't "how sweet, this guy's soooooooooo in love" or even "I wish I'd ever been this in love". Actually my response was first "pass the sick bucket" and then "shoot me if I ever want to write about myself and someone else in such terms".

My name is John Doe. [] My other relationship is with my beautiful, talented and did I mention GORGEOUS girlfriend.. girl of my dreams.. babe-o-rama :-D Zoe!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am clearly totally unfit to enter into another relationship, however fleeting it might be. I have so many defence mechanisms around me now that I can't imagine or abide the thought of letting go and having a little fun. We have a lot of young guys at work and they take the reality that they are lust objects for the sex-starved but still hormonal older women with remarkably good grace.

They know we talk among ourselves about their pecs and GMs and biceps; they turn it quite adroitly to their own advantage. We usually agree that if one of us were ever to make a real move on one of them, however, he'd run a mile in what might be a new world record. I have to admit though that if 'D' from work decided he wanted an education it would be me running that mile.