The kids across the street are shooting off fireworks, but they don't appear to be very good at aiming them, with the result that they tend to explode on our front sidewalk. If they kill the flowers my mom and I just planted along the sidewalk with tender loving care and rich new dirt from the bottom of the compost pile, I will have to march over there myself and be the angry adult. (Me! The angry adult! It's like a bad joke.)
I paper-cut the tip of my index finger. The sensation as I type feels alarmingly like the numbness of my pinky when the golf elbow is acting up. Strange.