The day my knee was torn, and my blood consumed!

It was thursday and it was cold. I had just moved out of my old crappy attic apartment and was unpacking all of my things into a new home. Things were rather hectic, and I was, as usual, alone. I had papers due, deadlines to meet, and without any vehicle or friends I had to complete the material evacuation of my old place before the required date. My ex-landlord was being a bit of an ass, expecting me to clear out furniture that was never mine to begin with, and I had to make several trips carrying odds and ends to and fro. While a normal man would have ended up a huddled mass of tears from the physical burden of carrying lamps while walking several blocks, I shouldered on. Sacks of laundry, boxes of dishes, a broken computer: nothing was to heavy for me, my heart, and my incredibly muscular physique. And so I walked. Back and forth. On a cold thursday afternoon. On these walks I was quite introspective. This was a bold new step in my bold life. A new home. New challenges. Was it the right choice? While I contemplated the possibilities of my new habitation and mourned the loss of the old, a dog bit my fucking knee. I was simply walking with a bunch of plates and nick knacks strapped to my back, while a young couple simply walked their dog. The dog bit my fucking knee. He tore my pants and opened a gash on my leg. I thought about punching the dog. I think I may have said "What the fuck?". I am sure I said "Your dog just bit my leg" to the couple. The couple corrected my rather cavalier assertion. "Its not our dog", they replied. In my heart I sincerely apologized for unjustly jumping to the bigoted conclusion that the dog that just bit my knee was owned by the people walking it. I swore to myself never again would I fall into the trap of stereotyping people. I truly was being no better than a nazi. Sometimes I make myself sick.
Lessoned learned I walked to my home and examined my knee. No mere dog jaw could ever really hurt me, but there is an old wives tale concerning rabies. The legend goes something like this: When a strange dog bites you and pierces the skin you should get a rabies shot, otherwise you could die. This legend is complete bullshit. According to the reasoning that recommends a rabies shot, if a dog bites a stranger and pierces the skin, the dog might get aids and die. I don't see dogs taking drug cocktails for aids, so I sure as hell am not going to take a couple shots to the ass for rabies. Having satisfied myself with this watertight argument I forswore medical attention and continued to move stuff out of my apartment. To this day however I think about that dog, its mysterious owner, and the professional dog walkers who walked the dog towards my knee. I don't exactly understand how these disparate pieces fit together, or why that day played such a important role in my becoming jesus, but deep down I know that they somehow connect intimately with my divinity, and that they and they alone reveal the underlying trinity of my godhead.