Hansaplast, you irk me.

Earlier I told a fun little puff piece on how I dreamed I was eating salami and then later, when I was awake, I could smell it even though there was none present. Here is the continuation of that story:

I smelled it again tonight, and I told my roomie, Ben. I said, "Ben, do you smell it?!" and he replied: "Hmm, no. But you know how sometimes when people have brain tumors they'll start smelling burning?..."

And now I live in fear. Not such a puff piece anymore, is it, BEN?

Now for a bit of nothing:
I wouldn't recommend using band-aids purchased in Nicaragua for actual open wounds. When I went to Nicaragua a couple years ago, we did so much walking that I started to get blisters, so I bought a standard box of bandaids (not BandAid brand, no) to put on the bottom of my feet. That was all fine and well, but since then I've been using that same box, because how many bandaids do you go through when you're not 5, you know? And every time I use one I get so annoyed with myself, because the little pad on these bandaids is fluorescent orange, and every time it leaves this hideous bright orange rectangle stain. I've got a scrape on the top of my hand right now, and I used one of those damn "Hansaplasts" again. It looks as though I spent my evening in some 18+ club that obnoxiously stamps the hands of those not-of-age so as to keep them from even lifting a glass containing alcohol without hailing a bartender. I bet this stain even glows in black light ...