One might ask: why?
Why be afraid of needles and pass out on time the blood collection, then if we are willing to pay twenty euro to be putting a ring in his ear? To ensure a more prosaic answer to the question, we add about fifteen of days of disinfectant, infection, assorted creams and candles, and here the only possible answer to the simple souls, is that they are a jerk. But having more respect for myself of these simple souls, I continue to tell me that I wanted to celebrate another important period of my life this way, with something permanent.
Actually I had this in mind when ten days ago I presented to the piercing shop, a place for me akin to the torture chambers of the Inquisition, for me to add a foil to the left lobe, better known as the earring. The procedure itself is painless, simple, and she greets me recommending washing with soap and not touch it with unwashed hands. So far, so good, except that after a week everything was invariably infected by inflating my already hypertrophied lobe to encompass the ball earring. The above is sufficient in itself to make sufficiently ridiculous thing, however, after having removed and put the earring, the situation has worsened, forcing me to disinfect it several times a day in the bathroom of the study, to the amusement of my colleagues free from this type decorations. For the record, put the earring in place required a painful half hour of fruitless attempts in the mirror and then ask my roommate to help with that as fast as little polite gesture resolved the problem. Last chapter of the happy experience was tonight when I came back from Miss Torquemada to seek guidance, and you, the price of eight euro and further sufferings, replaced the original ball with a ring more functional.
I think I can safely say that I want to have anything to do with the piercing.
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