Bleed: (v) to lose blood from the body
In the course of watching one evening of television–with a lot of channel flipping–I counted seventeen people who were shot.
All of them started to bleed.
I watched with interest.
It seemed to stain their clothing.
They appeared to be in pain, though I felt no empathy.
In one particular gun scene, ten of the seventeen were wounded with blood loss.
I watched intently.
Turning my television set off, I went into my bathroom to prepare for bed and realized I had not shaved that morning. So for some inexplicable reason, I thought it was a good idea to do so before I went to bed.
Call it clumsiness, stupidity or just a bit of “sleepy eyes,” I cut my lip with the razor.
Blood poured forth.
Not as much as you would expect to come out of a gunshot wound, but it struck terror in my soul and nearly made me frantic.
It was my blood coming out of my face with no immediate prospect for cessation.
It took me five minutes to stop the bleeding.
I looked down at discarded toilet paper covered with my red fluid and the sink stained. It was gruesome.
In actuality, I probably didn’t lose more than a tablespoon of blood–but it terrified me to see my life dribble away.
One of the things that disturbs me about entertainment is what we now consider to be entertaining.
Bleeding is bad.
Things that cause bleeding are equally as sinister.
And losing our sensitivity about a single drop of blood may be the definition of evil.
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