I feel a certain camaraderie now with men and women who have been scarred by battle. I, myself, posses a battle wound. Last night on the return trip from Sweeny Todd I accidentally closed my leg in the door of a jeep. It was excruciating, but somehow I managed to keep a clear head and beat the enemy back (open the car door). My leg is twisted, covered in purples and blues that are brighter than the hues in my hair.
It was hard to sleep, my mind overflowing with questions. Why me? How had this peaceful trip turned into such a bloodbath? What did I do to the car door to deserve this animosity? How could something I had always treated with gentleness and respect, never slamming, treat me in such a way?
War is hell, ladies and gentlemen and I have the bruise to prove it.