I'm going to take a wee break from deeper musings and political commentary to share with you a story of how I was assaulted in my own car.
I was driving to the library because... I don't need a bloody reason, it's the library! Anyway, there was a slight tickle on my chest, the faintest whisper of sensation. My brain and I settled down to analyze the situation, mulling the thing over for countless milliseconds. Little did we know that there were other members of the body who were not so prone to deliberation.
My left arm, it turns out, is quite impatient, and had no intention of waiting for my brain and I to decide that there was, in fact, a bug on me and that it should be swatted.
No, sir! My left arm is an arm of action! Breaking rank, it flew of its own accord to see that the problem was dealt with swiftly and decisively. Sadly, when it acts independent of the brain, my left arm doesn't have any sense of level or restraint.
It wasn't leaving anything to chance.
So it was, from the vantage point of me and my brain, that there was a slight tickle on my chest, followed immediately by a rib-cracking thump delivered by my own left arm.
Not wanting to offend my left arm, I congratulated him on his swift reflexes and decisive nature. Still, in these quiet moments, my brain and I exchange loaded glances. Heavy eyebrows carry deep worry about a house divided against itself...
I'm not saying I'm a danger to myself, but for the sake of caution, I might sleep tonight with my left arm held securely under my stomach.