Dear Blood

You might not realize this due to past experience, but you were made to stay inside my body.  The years of random nosebleeds may attest otherwise, but generally, you do more good under my skin than pooled on my clothes or on some random pool table.  Until tonight, I figured at this point that we had a mutual understanding on this matter.

After a long day of work and putting in my time in the gym, I sat in my chair to enjoy some iced tea and Gaslight Anthem before dinner.  After a few minutes, I realized I had forgotten to make a phone call, and I stood up to take the call outside.  Gravity and I haven't always been besties, and this became no exception.  I was immediately back in my chair, confused at why my legs refused to work, why my head was fuzzy, and why my neck was wet.  I touched my neck, only to pull my hand away more sticky and red than the cherry cobbler fiasco of Memorial Day 2011, when I bled all over the cherry cobbler.  

Somehow, my head had opened an extra hole, of which I was blissfully unaware.  I had nothing but soft fluffy recliner goodness to cushion me, and somehow my brittle skin split with extreme prejudice.  I soaked through a a paper towel, and finally thought I had staunched the flow.  Carefully, I made my way towards the door, intent to make the phone call.  As I lifted my hand to reach for the doorknob, whatever gesture my fingers made opened another portal to the blood realm, and I had to sequester myself to the bathroom until this bizarre interpretation of "Are You There God? It's Me, Greg" came to an end. 

Look at my shirt. 

This is a surprising amount of blood for me to have had absolutely no clue that I was cut or how it had happened.  Obviously, I had angered some deity.  The blood god demanded a sacrifice, and only Greg brand Sangria would slake Quetzalcoatl's thirst.  That, or The Walken was angered that I wore his graven image, and his fury knew no bounds.