I found out today that you can't deny who you are; not really.
I don't know that I was actually denying it, ever, but I certainly got confirmation of what I was already pretty suspicious. That is, of course, that I am heading in the right direction by going into forensics.
There is something about blood spatter on white tile floors that is both attractive and intriguing. Now, don't read me wrong and think I am going to go Dexter on everyone--who, by the way, doesn't actually enjoy the sight of blood, but does like to "organize it," so to speak, thus his career choice--I don't think I would put the blood there purposefully from the veins of either myself or someone else just to look at it shimmer, I don't think I could ever do that. But, clearly, I could certainly one to photograph, analyse, and collect the blood that has already been spattered by someone else's volition. And, in fact, if I possessed either slides or a microscope, collection and study would have been on my list, as I stared down at my own blood spotting my bathroom floor.
Sometime last week I stepped on a glass plate on my floor and broke it into three pieces. My carpet is, for lack of a better term, shag, and I clearly missed a few pieces as I was cleaning up. Thus, this afternoon, walking across my newly cleaned but not newly vacuumed bedroom floor, my right, big toe caught a shard. I proceeded to pick it out, first laughing at my stupidity and then curious to actually see my own blood on its tiny glass edge. I carried into the bathroom to be thrown away, but when I realized how badly I was bleeding, I got a bit nerdy.
I set the glass on the counter and let my foot hang over the tile floor, waiting for a drop of crimson to fall the six-inches to the ground. When it did, I sat down and cleaned off my poor toe while I studied the varying droplets I had both accidentally flicked onto the floor and purposefully let drop. From afar they looked remarkably similar, but band-aid in place, I knelt down with my camera phone--cleverly retrieved from my bed--and took a few close ups. Two of the spatters I'd accidentally flicked onto the tile when I thought I wasn't bleeding where thicker along the opposite edge, proving they'd been flicked. Whereas, the one I'd let well and eventually drop from my toe was consistent, one two-cc droplet of dark red that clearly plopped down and chilled out just like it was. I could even tell the way they'd landed by the rims around the edges where they'd already started to dry. When I wiped them up with a wet tissue, the rims held on a bit longer, darker around the opposite edges where the blood had been propelled from the subtle flick of my foot as I hobbled into the bathroom. The bigger, darker spot from my standing still had a rim as well, consistent in color around the circumference. And, of course, the whole time I snapped pictures and looked up close, I was giggling.
I wish that I had had some slides; maybe I could've picked up the drops with a q-tip and kept them for later observation under a microscope. I wish I had a microscope, so I could do such an observation. I've never looked at blood under the scope, but I have a feeling I have a taste for it. It's curious, the weird things we're into, but I guess they can't be denied.
The good news is, other than serial killer, there are some career opportunities out there for weirdos like me. One of them, of course, is forensic scientist, exactly what I was planning on majoring in--along with anthropology.
I'd rather not have to become a serial killer. I'd really much rather put them in prison, it seems like less work.
And the conclusion I came to: I'm a dork. I'm a nerd. I'm a geek. I'm probably a forensic scientist as well.
Looks like I am on the right track to accepting that my life is literally around the corner, all I have to do is be ready to round the bend.
Now if only I weren't so afraid.
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