Many years ago, while I was living in Washington, I read an article in the Washington Post about the preponderance of Saturday- and Sunday-morning emergency-room visits at area hospitals from otherwise intelligent people who had sliced badly, though probably not maliciously nor intentionally, a finger or two while cutting their morning bagels.

I did almost the same thing this morning.

But I wasn’t a cutting a bagel, I was cutting, or trying to cut, in half, my intended breakfast, an egg roll from last night’s Chinese take out.

I failed miserably. And so, at this moment, while I’m not headed to the nearest hospital, I will admit my left index finger is disabled for at least the short term. (“Nasty gash” is the best phrase that comes to mind.)

I know I could continue to blog, but the number of typos so far incurred in producing this post eagerly lends to the argument that I should take a brief respite.

It doesn’t help that my right index finger, for the past three days, has been afflicted by a tiny cut, possibly a paper cut that despite its miniscule size has been aggravated by the wound’s annoyingly inconvenient position, at least with respect to operating a keyboard, a location that has had me applying, adjusting, removing, and then reapplying bandages with irritating frequency.

I promise nothing. It’s Sunday, after all, and while the newspapers on Sundays typically are thin event-wise, some of them tend to be robust perspective-wise. And it’s not like a couple of little cuts are going to shut me up.