Whoever wrote that last post must have been on smart pills or something!
Seriously, it was me who wrote it, but that's a Frisky Chesterton post if I've ever read one. Some times I feel like I'm David Jeckyll and Frisky is like Walter Hyde. That's if Hyde were really smart, I mean, not a creepy little midget.
So get a load of this:
"It was the strangest sensation. Two violent heaves, and there it was: I had vomited a human finger. 'Now, where,' I thought to myself, 'did that come from?'"
That's from the guy who wrote Winnie the Pooh! A.A. Milne, New Years' morning, 1932! I hope his resolution wasn't to stop eating fingers. (Although that could be a tricky one, depending on your situation. I guess I shouldn't judge.)
For some reason I have butter, or something buttery, all over my fingers right now. I can't for the life of me think where it could have come from. It's like I slapped a man made of butter, or something. I don't think I would ever eat my own fingers, even buttered up like this. Unless I was starving, and the only way to ensure that some of my fingers lived was to eat the rest of them—I might do it then. But that same sentiment goes for children, assuming I had children (multiple children, anyway). It's just common sense.
Oh, I don't think I ever mentioned it, but I've been going to therapy lately. I started going because I kept waking up with huge wedgies, and I wondered if I might be doing that to myself on purpose in my sleep. The real problem turned out to be related to the material of my pajamas, but I don't regret the therapy. You don't want to play around with something like that. Getting things stuck in your butt crack can be a serious problem (I've seen x-rays), and I feel pretty certain that it usually starts with wedgies. Anyway, it's nice to have that resolved, but I've continued with the therapy. I've always thought of therapy as sort of a status symbol, and now that I'm in it, I have to admit that it feels good. It's like driving a used Lexus. Very nice.