Karma Leaves a Mark

I reach into the bag blindly, groping for my comb to tame the disaster that's become of my hair during the morning commute. This is, of course, in direct violation of all of my recent attempts to "do easy."

The pencil lurking in the darkness of my satchel does its work quickly, and I almost hear the little "pop" as it pierces my thumb like a needle. I jerk my hand back and watch a bubble of blood well on the tip of my thumb, remembering the time in junior high when I accidentally stabbed myself in the knee with a pencil, and wonder if this time, like then, will leave a mark that lasts years.