I always feel like such a pussy because I have a squeamish stomach, but the other day when I was at the Brian Wilson concert, I put my hand in my pocket where I had forgotten there was a mechanical pencil that I had put in there after putting a few entry clues into a crossword, and a huge chunk of the lead from the pencil got deep in between my cuticle and my nail and broke off, and though it hurt like a bitch, I couldn't get it out at the time.
When I got home and dug it out with a nail clipper, it was a quarter-inch long.
Surprisingly, I got it out without being squeamish at all.
I wonder how I would fare if I was ever in something like the Jonestown airstrip massacre, where the one congressman's aide had to sit in a tent all night with no medical help with like all of her one thigh blown off, and the remaining muscle gangrening, and trying to keep conscious until medical help arrived so she wouldn't go into shock and then die (she manned up and made it).
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