Saturday, December 04, 2010

Tangled Veins

When I was but a wee lad, my brother sprained his ankle. As my mother was putting liniment on the injured part, I asked her what exactly happened to my brother’s foot. She said the veins just got tangled somewhat. I then imagined the inner clockwork of my brother’s foot as looking like some sort of clusterfuck, or Gordian Knot, or rat king.

Some years later, a particularly accident-prone classmate of mine jumped into a hole behind the schoolhouse. Bang. Sprained ankle. We fished him out of that hole weeping and gnashing his teeth and rending his garments and lying in ashes and lamenting the sins of Israel. We brought him to the school clinic where the corpulent nurse (who, incidentally, had no sense of humor whatsoever) started bandaging his ankle.

“Don’t worry,” I pompously told both the nurse and my classmate, sounding like I had wisdom far beyond my years; wisdom gleaned from the foot of an ascetic wasting away in the hollow of a holy tree. “Don’t worry, the veins of his foot just got tangled somewhat.”

The humorless nurse looked at me and snorted, saying something particularly scathing. Something you don’t tell a six-year-old kid however stupid he sounds. I felt like I had the IQ of a planarian.

That fiasco was the first time it ever occurred to me that maybe my parents didn’t always know what the fuck they were talking about. It started me upon the path of questioning everything. Faith soon unraveled after that.


  1. It's always nice to read a fresh squid post. :)

    Happy Holidays Squid.