I sliced open my ankle with a razor on Saturday night. It was an accident. It hurt, and it bled, and it stung, and it bled, and somehow, it was satisfying. I looked at the deep-red stains on the gauze, at the pink soap sud swirls on the bottom of the bathtub, and it was fascinating. I'm not sure why, but wounds, my wounds, have always been a source of pride. From the scabbed-over knee caps to the black eye and bruised shins. Whether I fell off my bike, missed a grounder at second-base or cut myself with a junky razor, my wounds have brought me a strange sort of fulfillment. I feel more human, and at the same time, more god-like. I feel pain, yet I heal. The aching makes me feel stronger -- maybe because I am able, despite the weakness. Sometimes scars remain, reminding me of the pain. But more importantly, they remind me of the healing.