My mom really likes polysporin.
For those who aren’t in the know, polysporin is a brand of antibiotic ointment in Canada that’s put on wounds to help healing and prevent infection. For those in the U.S., it is the equivalent of Neosporin. Which sounds like Neo from the Matrix is some sort of fungus spore contaminating everything.
So to reiterate, my mom really likes polysporin.
Anytime we got a cut or scratch growing up, she’d tell us to go wash it out, put on polysporin and then put a bandaid on it.
Cat scratch? Polysporin. Scrape? Polysporin. Blister? Polysporin. Didn’t matter. By the time we were five, the polysporin was probably useless from overuse and the bacteria evolved into super-polysporin resistant monsters. I’m sure my brother and my immune system adapted in sync with it though, so we’re pretty both super powered mutants or something.
Professor Xavier hasn’t been in contact with us yet, which is cool, we’ll just bide our time. He knows where to find us.
For the record, I hate polysporin.
Only because its cap doesn’t make sense due to the way my brain has been wired form decades of brushing my teeth way more times than I’ve ever needed polysporin. My brain is used to this sort of cap:
But no, that’s not how the polysporin cap works. It’s shape is backwards.
I have never successfully on the first attempt put the polysporin cap back on the tube the correct way. Instead the wrong end gets gooped and slimed. The cap is my sworn enemy.
But once again, despite my hatred of the gooey stuff that has given me super powers which means I have to hide my secret identity in fear of my enemies hurting the ones I love … my mom really likes polysporin.
It’s probably a good thing that she’s a librarian and not in the medical field. No matter how much training she’d have as a nurse or doctor, all I can think of in the worst case scenarios is her saying only one thing:
Put some polysporin on it.
(It’s okay though, doctors can’t give me mom hugs.)