My sore’s name is Bernie. Please, before you jump up and down screaming, “You can’t name a sore!” let me explain.
About three years ago I was chilling in a bar with some of my friends, or in that part of my identity crisis, my homeys. We was chillin’, oh, excuse me, we were hanging out drinking when one of my smoker friends leaned in a little too close and burned the heck out of my forearm. What ensued was a major burn that I named Bernie.
Bernie was deep. He lived way down in my skin. Whenever I thought I was alone, Bernie would say hello with an excruciating sting. He was always there for me.
One day, Bernie decided he was done living on my arm. He started to heal. “Bernie!” I exclaimed. “Please don’t leave me! I need you!”
Bernie answered with his usual dull pain, and slowly disappeared. In the distance, I heard him say, “I’m going to India! I’ll send you a postcard!”
I was not going to let this happen! He wouldn’t last a day in India. According to an episode of Seinfeld, India is the only place that still has the plague. Those Bubonic Sores would eat him alive! In order to keep him in the states, and on the safty of my arm, I picked away at where he used to live. I dug deep. I dug through the pain. I needed my Bernie back, and there he was, in all his bloody glory!
Bernie had returned, but now he looked different. It was as if Bernie was a caterpillar, and had transformed into a gruesome moth! Bernie had transcended the burn plain, and had become a festering, pus-filled sore! Most people would look at him and scream in horror, but he was my sore, and I loved him.
Every now and then, Bernie MySore tries to leave, but after a little begging, and a lot of picking, Bernie is always here to stay!