I've returned. Back from hiding, with a vengeance. What brings me back? Oh let me tell you.
First, let me say that there are few things you expect to find under your refrigerator – dust bunnies, bits of what was for dinner three weeks ago now permanently a part a your floor. And there's a few things no one wants to find – cockroaches, dead body or worse a drunk and horny Kevin Federline.
But what about a used hypodermic syringe?
Uh huh, you heard me. Is your skin crawling right now because that's pretty much the standard reaction. That or aak, eeesh and munwwaaah.
So what are we looking at here? Best case scenario – diabetic? One who would need a syringe to supply his body with insulin in order to survive, thrive and become a gainful member of society.
Worst case – DRUGS. (said in the same hushed tones as your mom would say) Smack. Black tar. China white. Ack ack. Judas. Mr. Brownstone. I'm living in an old opium den. (And the apartment people certainly didn't put that in the brochure.)
My first reaction upon seeing the syringe – thanks to Nancy Regan and our friends at D.A.R.E. – was to flee the situation whilst saying NO! with a great force. And then I thought, this might be why there are bunch of indentions on my front door, you know the kind that's left by folks who knock while they're forcefully saying POLICE! and OPEN UP!
So, now then what do I do with it? Leave it? But what if someone after me finds and assumes I'm the intravenous drug user. I can't have my pristine reputation tampered with in that manner. Or remove it? And be forced to – gulp – touch it. With eleventy hundred layers of protective gear, mind you. But I know if I try to remove the damn thing, it will be the time Dallas S.W.A.T. decides to bust on in, and there I'll be standing with my needle in my plastic kitchen gloved hands.
So, yeah I'm just gonna go with that it belonged to a diabetic.
