[Warning: Graphic descriptions of horrible things ahead, but, as consolation, no pictures.)
This has not been a good week for me from a self-inflicted wound standpoint.
First, I must have stepped in something itchy when geocaching about two weeks ago, because in the middle of the week last week I had an itch on my foot. At first I thought it was a mosquito bite, but this was a full-on skin irritation. I had to resort to that worst of office cubicle faux pas--taking my shoe off at work. All I saw was a bump. Nothing red or particularly alarming, just itchy. This lasted for about three days, and no amount of scratching would stop the itch.
Which, it turns out, was more scratching than should ever be the case. Peeling off a sock a day later, I immediately knew something was wrong. I look down, and I had somehow managed to scratch away my skin. I had no idea I was doing this, but it was there plain as day--a big patch of non-existance epidermis. Needless to say, it stopped itching (presumably because I slowly ground the skin away) but now hurts like no one's business. I'm still slathering it with salve and keeping the dogs from licking it.*
Then, during a home project that had the unfortunate aspect of involving oil-based paint, I spend about three hours crouched in the same position. This is enough for someone like me to take the armchair doctor method of drinking milk and gorging on bananas, and while my muscles were sore there appeared to be no lasting damage except for being irritable to my wife. However, I then foolishly decided to take a shower/bath/shower again, since I was covered with sticky red paint, two barrel's worth of rust, and shame. In the process, my muscles decided to no be particularly cooperative, and I slipped in the tub. No harm, I thought, just a little discombobulation until I woke up the next morning and OH MY GOODNESS WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE SOMEONE CARVED OUT HALF OF MY BACK AND POURED GASOLINE DIRECTLY INTO MY BLOODSTREAM.
So then a day or two later, my wife and I went to one of those local pizza buffets. It's good stuff, and they generally have a decent mix of pizza toppings, and in what was apparently an overenthusiastic reaction to seeing chicken pizza I managed to press my hand against the heat lamp like a canned ham. (For those keeping score at home, this is not the first time this sort of thing has happened.) Oddly, it didn't hurt--still doesn't--which I assume is a byproduct of my increased tolerance to pain, but now I have a dime-shaped birthmark on my hand as a reminder of the evils of gluttony.
Part of me thinks I have one of those House-type diagnosis that's causing me to suddenly have a lot of minor, pride-injuring accidents. And part of me thinks I'm just a clumsy dumbass.
*I don't know if those dogs have some sort of sixth sense, or if they are 1/32nd vampire, but the moment there was a wound they had easy access to they went at it like it was a free steak on my foot. It was gross. Dogs are gross.