This is an old uni assignment I had lying around. I’m recycling it because last Saturday I became one of (probably) thousands of Australians whose lives are torn apart by plush foam children’s toys every year. An innocuous throw of the famously soft and catchable projectile known as the Vortex — that whistlin’ missile, a feature of any good picnic — jarred and shattered the phalanx of my right little finger so badly that I had to have a reconstructive surgery.
The Doctor said I might never pinky swear again.
Though I have no doubt that I will continue to milk this injury for all that it’s worth in the coming weeks, at the moment, my right hand is in a sling and cast that I have to keep elevated above the level of my heart. I’ve been typing with my left index finger like a myopic and technophobic granny. It’s a unique form of torture, and I can’t do it for long.
Hence the deep dive into the ‘Misc. Crap’ folder. This recycled uni assignment still kind of works thematically, though, I guess. Like my broken hand, this stranger than fiction true story is very dumb.
Have you ever thought about robbing a bank?
Well don’t do it like this.
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