Writing in Blog While Exhausted and Slicing Finger

I am currently writing in my blog.  It is 1 a.m. right now, and I am exhausted.  Before you disregard this as a sham post, please note that I have never posted anything while tired.  I have diligently written in my blog while in a functional state, so as to please the people as much as possible.  Even last night, I started watching Catch Me If You Can (starring Leonardo DiCaprio) early so that I would have time to post.  In fact, I have been quite tactical in my thinking process while creating this blog--more so than one may think.  I even consider my public image: for example, I thought of how neglecting to post something tonight would possibly improve my reputation as a "cool" writer: people would think "oh, Mackenzie is out on the town tonight.  It's a Friday.  She is too busy experiencing things to reflect on them right now.  On Sunday, that's when she will do her reflecting."  But then I realized--No!  The people desire literature!  And so I write.

And while I write, I am constantly informed of the finger wound that was inflicted upon me this afternoon.  I was hungry for some black beans, so I grabbed a can and proceeded to open it with a can opener.  The can opener, however, failed me, leaving a bit of the metal left uncut, and the beans impossible to access.  The only logical thing this illogical person could think of was sticking her finger in the can, hoping to pry the lid off.  My finger, however, became stuck against the sharp edge of the lid, making a clean slice that, to my horror, immediately bloomed red.  I clutched my finger desperately, ran to the bathroom, and laid pathetically on the floor.  I knew I needed to rinse the wound, but I couldn't face the blood.  And so I remained on the floor for a good five minutes, curled in the fetal position and hiding my bloody finger in my fist.  It was only after my father's coaxing and my realization that we were expecting guests in the house any minute, that I stood up and looked at the cut.  It didn't look so bad at first; the cut was small and devoid of blood from my applied pressure.  After several seconds of oxygen, however, the blood reappeared in a thin line.  I screamed and ran it under the water, then proceeded to lay down on the floor again.  By the time I finally stood up and put a band-aid on, I was covered in animal hair from the floor.  

I couldn't look at the black beans in the kitchen; I left them on the counter like a betrayed romantic leaves a cheating lover.  They hurt me too much; I couldn't go back.

Until I got over it, which I did, several hours later.  I realized that the can inflicted the injury upon me, not the delicious beans inside.  I couldn't hold it against them.  I ate them heartily, with a fresh appreciation of consciousness.