This morning, I was playing guitar. (Yes, it is both cheap and blue.) After a few minutes, it became hard to fingerpick the strings because my fingers kept catching on them. They were sticky. I looked down at my hand. My fingertips were red. I looked at the strings. There was blood on them.

"What the fuck?" I said as I went to the kitchen to wash my fingers. Upon closer inspection, I saw that I had a teeny tiny cut on the tip of my pointer finger. I have no idea how I cut it. I put on antibiotic ointment and a Simpsons band-aid and went about my day.

I have a tendency to bleed and not realize it. It's kind of a scary prospect. Once I was doing something in the kitchen and I felt something on my leg. I reached down to move whatever it was and when I brought my hand up, it was covered in blood. I looked at my leg and blood trickled down my calf. I guess I had scratched it on something. Every time this happens, I am of course puzzled by it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Later when The Roommate was home, I started telling her my story. When I said the word "blood", she winced and shivered. After the second mention, she said "can you call it something else?"

"Um. Okay. So I guess I had cut my finger long before I went down stairs because when went to my room there was a little bit of...marshmallow...on my bed. Later I found a spot of marshmallow in the light switch in my bathroom. This afternoon, I found marshmallow on the power buttons for the PC and monitor. Apparently I've marshmallowed all over the place and didn't know it."

"Now see. That's much nicer to hear."