By Richard Gregory
My right hand throbs in pain with every step. I likely need stitches, but it’s not like I can afford it even if I cared enough to go in. I could have done better than wrapping it in duct tape until a ridiculous club was formed, but oh well. It’s not like it will matter soon.
I probably deserve a little bit of pain, anyway. The only reason my hand’s in such rough shape is because I couldn’t stand the loser looking back at me in the mirror this morning. I didn’t hurt that 32-year-old failure where I was aiming, but I hurt him, all right.