Well, fuck me runnin’, as they say.

I was out gardening, transferring a sweet potato vine into a pot with a lilac, when there was a sharp jab in my hand.

“OW!” I said. “What the hell–?” and lifted my hand out of the pot.

There was a three inch long centipede attached to it.

I have nightmares like this.

I screamed, shook my hand, the centipede pulled its gigantic-ass stinger out of my flesh and dropped off, and I went in to call James and read on-line poison control information. The medical manuals all say “Put an ice cube on it and stop whining.” If my hand swells badly–the sting itself is red and swollen, but not grotesque–go to the emergency room, but otherwise, just deal.

“Catch it! Catch it!” said James. “Otherwise they won’t know what kind of centipede it was!” “You fucking catch it!” I snarled. “I know what pot it’s in, but I’m not putting my hands back in there!”

Why do I garden without gloves? Why? Why do I always forget? Is the texture of loam between my fingers worth this? What am I thinking?

In case anyone’s wondering, yes. It hurts. A lot. And of course, it’s right where my stylus falls, so I can’t work until it stops hurting.

As god is my witness, I will never go gloveless again.

Update: Called my doctor just in case. They said “Come in. Now.” Hopefully this isn’t a sign that I’m about to drop dead. At least they’re responsive…