Band-aids are Evil

You've just scraped or cut yourself somehow. You feel the pain, you wonder how it really happened, you get pissed because the next few moments of your life will be taken up by this unforeseen incident. Everything in your life is now put on hold because of this. Of course you panic, slightly... even more so depending on whether you're one of those pansies who passes out at the sight of your own blood. Suck it up, kid. You're bound to hurt yourself MORE if you pass out and fall and hit your head.
So there you are. In a matter of seconds, all the above has happened and now you're wondering if you should keep it pressed with a cold, wet washcloth. You keep taking it off and realizing you're still bleeding. DUH! You just slashed your body open! It's going to bleed for a while! And no matter how much you expect it to either stop or diminish quickly, it won't.
Now the thought enters your mind, "Do I have any band-aids?!?" It's not exactly at the top of your shopping list, as this kind of fun never really happens. So you walk into the bathroom and start opening cabinets, drawers, and doors. Where are they? Ah. There they are. Behind the other stuff you never seem to use but its still there despite that fact. You grab the box and open it. There are all these different sizes that you now have to sort through to find the one that matches your boo-boo. Now you're wondering why they all look the same, just in different sizes. Who was the genius that came up with this "strip" design? What does it mean!?? So after you've dumped them all out onto the counter, you make a decision and attempt the daunting task of getting the damn thing out of the wrapper. Seriously? HOW IS THIS RIGHT? Why would they do this to someone? It's like performing brain surgery trying to get your fingernails under that microscopic flap at the end and then be able to hang onto it long enough to get your other fingers onto it and actually pull it apart. That, in itself, is a major victory in my mind. Once you're over that hump, you're golden.
Now that the little bastard is out of its royal wrapper, it pisses you off yet again when it turns itself around and shows you the plastic peel that you'll once again have to get the surgical team in for. You tell yourself it won't be like opening the first wrapper because the size of these tabs is slightly larger in difference, allowing you for more access to them. This works out a lot better and now you're ready for application.
You quickly wipe up the now dripping blood that has been on free-flow since the trip to the bathroom began. Had you not had to take all your time and effort on the un-wrapping, you might not have had to clean this shit up. Now there's blood all over the washcloth and you're thinking to yourself, "I hope no one sees this and thinks I've murdered someone. " For a few quick seconds, you consider burning it behind the house or even throwing it in the river with a brick attached to it. But before you know it, you're bandaged up and you're wondering what the hell you were doing before all this began.
You decide to throw the washcloth into the laundry basket and accept that whatever raised eye-brows come your way, you'll just tell the truth and pray they believe you.
A few days go by... You've decided to keep the band-aid on because of the whole "I don't feel like bleeding all over the place" insecurity you have about it. And come on, let's be honest: If a scab forms, you're definitely going to pick at it and you'll be right back where you started 3 days ago.
While in the shower, the question pops into your mind, "Is it time?" Where do we draw the line on this one? Did our moms tell us this magic number? Did we hear it from other people? Or are we just insinuating that we know best? Either way, you go for it. You let the warm water run over it for a few seconds, then you start the process of peeling it back. AGH!!!! NOT READY! NOT READY!! But now you're screwed because you've just peeled it back far enough to where the water has gotten to it and now you can't tape it back. Ugh! And you're faced with the reality that this damn thing is going to have to come off completely now. Then you have to put it on the side of the shower somewhere where it won't try to go down the drain... and it's all gross and brown from the blood... and now you have to look at it over there. It's staring at you. It has now taken on an identity and you're suddenly distancing yourself from it and worry that it might slide down and touch your feet.
Not only that, but now your wound is exposed for the first time in a few days and the water is hitting it and sending you into a bit of a pain episode.
All this while you're supposed to be enjoying your cleansing experience.
You hurry through the rest of your shower and try hard to prevent any soap from getting anywhere near there.
Shower's off and you're grabbing the towel, knowing damn well you have to be extra careful because if the towel hits the cut, it's going to hurt like hell. Drying off becomes an Olympic sport in some aspects. Now that you've "blotted" around the area, you reach over and pinch the end of the soggy, bloody band-aid laying on the side of the shower. It gets thrown into the garbage and the thought enters your mind: "I hope no one sees that." But you quickly move away from that thought to "I wonder if I should put another one on?"
You do. And with such confidence that you question why it was so hard to do the other day?
3 days later, you say to yourself, "I wonder if its ready to come off?" But rather than re-live your "horror in the shower" scene, you just say "Screw it" and you attempt it right then and there on the couch.
You use your best fingernail, and start the all-too-familiar lift "up with your nail" procedure. You try to slide it under the end of the band-aid, but the f*cking glue has really sealed the thing to your skin! With every tug on it, there are hairs that are being yanked in a direction by a means that isn't humane! Nonetheless, you've started it and now it's time to finish it.
But with every lift, you're finding yourself in immense, but localized pain.
Wasn't it enough that the wound was painful in itself?!?! Wasn't it enough that this is the 3rd time in less than a week that this particular area of your body has cost you time away from your life and you'll end up with nothing to show for it but a stupid unnecessary scar!??!
And now this sonofabitch is going to have the audacity to be so f*cking stuck to your skin and hair that it's actually going to continue to cause you pain!?
What comes next? The inevitable: The rip. You're now contemplating something that no one should have to endure: quickly lifting one end of the band-aid and proceeding to pull it up and over at such a high rate of speed you actually think it won't hurt as bad. WRONG! It hurts like a motherfucker! And to remind you of how much it hurt like a motherfucker, you now have this little outline of a band-aid on your skin, consisting of the pale area where it actually was.... and this disgusting glue-based dirt mound that you're now going to have to scrape to remove.
SCRAPE?!? You're going to actually use your fingernail to scrape an area so close to your original wound to rid yourself of that nasty residue? Now you're just causing more pain to yourself, especially considering the close proximity of both the wound and the gummy dirt ring around it.
It's nearly impossible to get it all, but you manage to get the bigger clumps. And nevermind the gooey clumps that now reside in the hairs that you have to secure with your fingernails and gradually pull it through.. ugh.
The band-aid was supposed to bring you relief! It was supposed to be of some comfort to you! It wasn't supposed to bring frustration, confusion, and MORE pain!
F*ck you, band-aids!