Self-Mutilation

I have this strange fascination in digging up strange marks on my skin. Like I now have a “mole” on my finger because there was once a black dot on it. I used a needle to dig it out but ended up poking it right to the bone (there’s not much flesh on the skin just below your knuckle anyway) and it started to bleed. So I left it and the skin healed over the blood clot.

When I had a corn on my toe some years back, I jammed a pin as deep as I could and left it there for a while as it formed a cone of hard skin right into my flesh. Dug it out for fun now and then just to see the “hole” until it got deeper. That was only when I cured it with some cream. I think I might have found a new one recently. I’ll wait until my next extraction before I confirm if it’s the cone-like corn again.

Actually, it isn’t just me. The ultimate one on my list is my cousin, Kenny, who had his fun of tying all his milk teeth to an open door and slamming it shut. I remembered his bleeding toothless grin after that stint.

Then there was once when he had some sandy grain that pierced and embedded into his foot after jumping into the Malacca Club pool filled with sandy seawater. He came back, took a needle and proceeded to stab vigorously into the bottom of his foot.

Alas, my cousins migrated to Canada thereafter and I never knew what else he has done.

Surely we have more stories but I can’t recall.