Medical Log, Entry #1: Dissection by an Instagram serial reposter

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here comes a time for those most unlucky, when someone cuts through your head, pokes around, and criticizes its potential for soup. They might think you wouldn’t notice, but there is something rather obvious about a bald spot on the back of the head. Breezes exist, after all.

When I realized this happened to me, I needed to know who could possibly do something so insane. He was a tough little goblin to catch, throwing false facts here and there which I had no choice but to chase. Eventually I got him when I remembered the adage “there’s always the gun.” And while I detest guns I decided it was okay in this situation. I snuck up from the back and shot him in the calf. Practically harmless.

The blood was a mess I hadn’t accounted for. He made no effort to clot. What ever happened to common courtesy? I put a Scrub Daddy in the wound and carried on. I needed to get into his head, and so I clipped hair from the back, as apparently, he never watches that. Baldness exposed; I took blade to the skin. It came off like an orange peel—impossibly.

I had to use fork and blade and peeler and manifestation and everything. Eventually, I got it. Inside, nothing. Just a chunk of bone. A dead end. I was disappointed, if I am honest, but I had done my job. I sewed him back up.

I realized I never put him to sleep, I just shot him and tuned him out. So, when I began saying, “Wakey, wakey,” I stopped myself. Instead, I said: “Did you know your head is just like a big rock? You could bowl with it.”

I told him he should get that checked out. He said, “credit where credit is due, you must be at least a FICO 300.” I thought this was very nice.