The Blister
One winter when I was a little kid, about six or seven years old, my family took me up to Maine on a ski vacation. We rented one of those small rustic houses with a black wood heat stove in the living room to keep the place warm. Curious by the heating mechanism of the stove, I reached out and touched the stove with my finger to see if it was hot. It was. The pain was excruciating.
About an hour later, a big pus filled blister formed on my finger. I was terrified. I hadn’t seen a blister before. What was this mysterious fluid under my now white skin and would it ever go away?
That’s what this ‘Bag is. A blister. A giant pus filled patch of dead skin.
And I’m not just saying that because he’s pawing the hottest blonde salt water taffy this side of a Cape Cod clambake. Oh wait, yes I am.
