Let’s say you’re experiencing incredible, unrelenting sinus pain.
Let’s say you don’t have any medication.
Can someone provide me with a diagram of what sinuses are and where they are located and how I can rip them out of my head with a papermate?
Fuck. Better cancel my plans for tonight and stay on call.
Self has given up.
Sllf has failed to put together desk.
Self is so tired.
Slef is sitting at desk that isn’t really finished.
Self is going to bed.
Hey Band-Aid that is covering the blister I got walking to the train from my house this morning,
If I have to tape you in place with tape then you are bad at your job.
Nicole, who is targeting all of her humpday negativity at you
Firstly, I offer you my sincerest apologies for failing to remain in place. The fault is mine, and I admit that.
By way of explanation, I wish to share with you my credentials. For you see, this is my first professional job as a Band-Aid. For as long as I can remember (and indeed, as my parents will no doubt attest, longer still!), I have wanted nothing more than to be a Band-Aid. As a child, while my peers were outside playing sports and dreaming of being professional athletes, I was cooped up in my room, sticking to things. When kids my age began dating and experimenting with drugs, I was out protecting small injuries from the air. People told me I was crazy— especially when my stellar grades earned me a full scholarship to the pre-med program at Columbia College. I was now faced with a choice: follow the path of financial security, or pursue my dream. Against the advice of many, I chose the latter.
I spent much of the next decade mopping floors at the Loews movie theater on 34th St., occasionally earning extra cash by knitting hats with whales on them. It is with great shame that I acknowledge how near I was to abandoning my dream and going into knitting hats with whales on them full-time. Until I got the call. I was literally speechless. My one dream: achieved. I was to be a Band-Aid.
As you might imagine, once one is in a box, one does not know who has purchased said box. Was I to service a family? An office? Was I to be used, or would the entire box rest at the bottom of a seldom-opened drawer, forgotten until discarded? (It is commonly accepted amongst the Band-Aid community that one’s odds of being selected, even after purchase, are remarkably slim.) When you opened the box and selected me— ME!— I can honestly say it was the most nerve-racking moment of my life to date. What would your injury be? How long would you need me for? Would I stick to your hair and hurt coming off? My mind was racing. And in all the rush… I was unable to perform.
This is no less embarrassing now than it was at the time. I had always heard about adhesive dysfunction, but assumed it only happened to old, degraded Band-Aids. Turns out, a good old-fashioned case of the nerves is all it takes. I tried— I swear to God I tried, and I want you to know that. But when you applied that accursed tape, I knew I had failed.
I hope you will reconsider the targeting of your “humpday negativity”. I don’t think it presumptuous of me to say I do not deserve it. I have failed you, yes; I have failed both of us this day. But my intentions were noble, and my effort was consistent. I only hope you can sympathize.
I’ve said my piece. I wish you luck with your blister, and for as long as I remain (ugh) taped to you, I will do all I can to keep air away from it. If there is anything I can do to make this up to you, please let me know. I have season tickets to Green Day. If you want to see Green Day, I will get you in.