Why, you may ask, would I consider giving myself a nickname that sounds like an alcoholic beverage or a biker's nom d'usage? The first one should be painfully obvious to anyone who has encountered me, in person or on the interwebs. The second... well, there's really no reason for me to name myself something hardcore, except somebody once told me I was a John Rambo-type Badass. I should probably watch Rambo one of these days just to see if that person was correct.
The real reason for the nickname Snakebite is because I seem to be perpetually snakebit. For those of you who are ignorant as to Southern idioms, if you're snakebit, you have awful luck.
I went to the doctor, she gave me some medicine for this chronic problem I've been having, and it has actually gotten somewhat better.
HOORAY! I'M FEELING BETTER! I WAS ABLE TO WEAR HEELS ON SUNDAY AND AM NOT CRIPPLED AS A RESULT! WOOHOO! PAR-TAY!
NOT SO FAST!
At this point, the feel-good cops bust in and break up the party.
You see, on Sunday, I was cleaning out my car in preparation for having it detailed. While scooping various mix-CDs out of the center console and finding loads of pocket change, I also encountered something far more sinister. Something more sinister apart from an exploded tube of hand cream. I found... A PUSH PIN! And I found it with the tip of my thumb, into which the push pin thrust itself a good 1/8 of an inch.
It bled copiously, and I taught the neighborhood kiddies a couple of choice vocabulary words as I jumped backwards into the metal column that supports the covered parking structure. I should probably be baking cookies right now to take to their mothers as apologies, but they'd undoubtedly assume they're laced with drugs and that I intend to teach their children more naughty words while the parents are out cold on the kitchen floor.
I will not repeat Sunday's vocabulary lesson, seeing as it is fit for print only by the likes of Elmore Leonard and Kinky Friedman.
It hurt, but I didn't think anything of it, continued cleaning out the console, got my car detailed, went to the Nutcracker in Ft. Worth, and returned home. As I was falling asleep, I briefly reflected on the fact that my thumb was throbbing in pain. Again, I thought nothing of it.
Monday, however, it was still hurting, and a slightly different color from my other fingers, and the knuckles in my thumb were all feeling stiff. Occasionally, my wrist hurt. I decided it might be a good idea to go to the doctor. Just in case.
The doctor took one look at it, asked me if anything had come out of it, and prescribed me some antibiotics that are roughly the size of the afflicted thumb.
"Call me if it gets worse after three days or you see no improvement after seven," she said.
"You mean call so you can tell me to go to the hospital for IV antibiotics?" I asked. She nodded, smiling. "Yeah, you don't need to use euphemisms with me," I told her.
"I should have known by your medical history," she replied, still smiling, but also puffing her cheeks out in amazement. I have never seen a doctor simultaneously cheek-puff and smile at the same time.
It's not a particularly good look.