Thursday, September 22, 2005


I came across this site this morning, via fark, and was fascinated. Many times I've been told that I should have gone to med school, or found some way to work in the medical field. Never really figured out why, but I like it when people think nice things about me, so I just smile and move on.

When I started going through it, though, I started to think about some of my many (dermal, not emotional)scars.

I have had, through the course of my nearly 32 years, 13 stitches. 10 are from my knee surgeries, three to sew up my head (third story). Don't get the wrong idea. If you're taller than me, and have the right light, you can see a 3/4 inch scar in the middle of my beautiful, bald, scalp. You might have to look for it, though. It's hard to see. The knee surgery scars are a little faded, but still present.

I've got other nice ones, too- one just below my left eye (learning to walk), two on my right ankle, one from my shoe coming off while playing catch, and cutting myself on a garden stake, the other from an epee going about 1/2 an inch into my foot. There's one on each wrist (not what you think it is, trust me), one by my right thumb, and one on each finger on my right hand. That, my friends, is a story worth retelling.

Let's set the way-back machine for 1997. I'm living in my apartment in the (at the time) less than desirable neighborhood of Rogers Park. I had gone out with some co-workers that evening, then headed home. I was watching TV when I remembered that I had some beer in the fridge, and that a beer would taste really good. I grabbed one, and headed back to my couch. Damn. They're not twist-off.

After a somewhat frenzied and fruitless search for my opener, I came across a pair of needlenose pliers. I decided, sadly, to MacGuiver the beer open. I started prying and finally got the cap halfway off, when I gave it one good yank, and popped the top right off. I was well into the beer when I noticed that there was blood on my jeans, and then noticed that I had cut each finger, in a row, based on how I held the pliers. I had to laugh at myself, as did my boss when I came in the next day with band-aids on each one of my fingers.

It should go without saying that I have since always carried a church key, on my keyring.

I'm sure I could dazzle you with more scar stories, but I try to reserve those. Maybe later. Besides, I've got a slew of things to get done before I leave for Boston tomorrow.


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