I Need to Start Fucking Up My Hand on the Regular

It’s been a week since I had my surgery and no one warned me how fucked up my hand would look in the recovery process.  I have about an inch’s worth of stitches and my knuckles and wrist are bruised a deep purple. On top of that, since I’m right handed and my coordination is off, I managed to bruise my left hand.

Today, I was eating lunch outside of my work building where cars pass all the time.

One of them slowed as I was mid bite and a guy said he liked my hair before zooming off and it confused me. It’s usually the conversational in to “So where you from? Can I get your number? You got a boyfriend? You got a husband?

But instead I got peace and quiet.

Then I realized the right side of my body, along with my fucked up right hand was facing this man. He could have just been paying me a compliment. Or he could have seen my stitches and envisioned this:

man couple people woman
THIS ISN’T EVEN MY FINAL FORM!

Did I look like someone that got into fights?! Did no one put it past me?!

I ran into a couple friends when I was still wearing my big, unnecessary bandage and he asked, “Oh my God! What happened?!” And I immediately said, “I cold-cocked a motherfucker who tried me.”

The best part is they didn’t even question me about it! They stared in a mix of awe and horror.

I realized in that moment that I need to start fucking up my hands on the regular. Keep these stitches in a while. A woman with bruised hands says, “Damn, don’t try her. She gives zero fucks.”

Knowing this has given me the confidence of a toddler wearing a Batman shirt.

Asking for a loan at the bank and they don’t know if I qualify? Bet I will after they see my hands.

Lost coupon at the grocery store? Bet I’ll get that discount upon encountering the fierce war scars of these hands.

Thinking about catcalling? Bet you won’t after seeing these hands.

These hands say “I wish you actually would.”

… But please don’t. They’re still sore and my stitches aren’t out for another week.

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