The only major scar I’ve got is a gap in the flesh of my right knee, produced in much the same way as silent rob’s scar - riding a bike on a gravel road, trying to do a really really big skid, and ending up lying in a blackberry bush with small rocks embedded in various parts of my body.
Also, at my first high school (an outer suburbs public school which, uh, [tact] wasn’t exactly renowned for producing academically successful students [/tact]), there were rock fights every lunchtime. Just for fun. After one guy literally lost an eyeball, and a car on the nearby highway crashed after being hit by a wayward stone, it was made clear by the principal, in a special assembly, that all rock fights were to cease immediately. They didn’t, of course.
Amazingly, I survived my two years at that school without serious injury, and spent the next four years at a supposedly disciplined inner-city school (still public, but you wouldn’t guess it - we had to wear blazers and ties and sing hymns and stuff). Supposedly. But then again, both of the scars from there were pretty much my own fault. In grade 9, I was stabbed hard in the shoulder with a very very sharp pencil after really pissing my friend Sam off by bugging him all day - it went through my blazer, through my shirt, and through my undershirt and embedded itself deeply into the flesh. I have a small blue-black dot there now.
I really deserved the other one. My friend James had a little rubber purple dinosaur pencil sharpener. Keep in mind this was grade 11. I frequently pointed out to him that it was rather dorky. He defended that stupid little thing, saying it was a gift from his sister and very special to him. So naturally, I vowed to destroy it. I stole the little barneyesque sharpener when he wasn’t paying attention, and later sliced its head clean off. The head was hollow, and I decided that the best way to inform him that I’d decapatated his precious sharpener was to stick the head over the lock on his locker and leave it there for him to find.
The next class we had together was English. I was waiting in the room before class, and James appeared at the door. He stared at me. He put his books down. He opened his pencilcase and took out his scissors. The next several minutes were a bit of a blur, as I was being chased around the room by him, laughing and yelling in victorious glee and terror. He eventually cornered me and started slashing at me with the open blades of the scissors. I held my hands up to protect my face while I shreiked like a girly-man. Drawing blood was apparently enough revenge for James (and I’m pretty sure he was startled that he went that far, and scared that I’d tell a teacher). For the rest of that day I proudly showed off the fresh scars and dried blood on my hands. James and I remained good friends for the rest of high school.
The only one I remember is when I was riding my bike to the pool. I had a towel around my neck, and it slipped into the front forks of my bike. Not good. I went over the handlebars. You know the little bone protrusion on the top of your wrists? The left one caught the whole fall. No stiches, but I have an oval-shaped scar about a fourth of an inch there.
I have a small dent in my forehead from when I was 13 or 14 and washing my hands in the bathroom. I had to sneeze, and rather than putting up my wet, soapy hands… I bent to sneeze into the sink. I tend to sneeze rather violently, and I bashed my head on the faucet.
I once was cutting some carpet with a utility knife, when it popped out of the carpet and lodged itself in the webbing between the forefinger and thumb of my other hand.
When I was a little kid, I lent our garden hoe (spade? Long handle, sharp triangular head) to the kid next door and when he was done, he gave it back by lobbing it over the 5’ fence between our yards. I looked up and caught the sun in my eye, and brought my head back down reflexively… just as the thing landed on the top of my head, point first. Blood poured down my face from my hairline in frightening quantities. My mom just gave me an ice bag and sent me to my room for the evening
Scar 1 – I was 2 years old and climbing up my high chair. Fell back with it and it bashed my brow. I have a slash scar through my eyebrow that you can’t notice unless you look. 3 stiches
Scar 2 – Tried riding my brothers bike, that was different thatn mine. It started veering to the right, towards a low brick wall. I couldn’t stop it in time. The wall sliced right into my right leg. 5 stiches, very visble.
Scar 3 – Horsing around with my ex-boyfriend in a parking lot. I tried to hit him, he blocked he hit with his leg. Broke my left ring finger. It is a little crooked now. no stiches. (but the fire dept. was training at the hospital, and they all surrounded me to bandage my poor lil’ finger up. That was great, a dozen burly muscular men…)
Honey, don’t feel so bad. Just yesterday, I was vacuuming my living room floor. I was standing right next to the stairs when I suddenly sneezed hard and I ended up bashing my forehead into the stair railing. No blood, but I’ve got a decent sized bump right in the center of my forehead right at the hairline.
I remembered another stupidity scar that I have. It is about two inches long right over the top of my left shoulder blade. When I was maybe 11 or 12, my back was itching real bad, so I decided to use the clothes hanger to try and scratch it. The hanger was one of those metal or aluminum or whatever the hell they are made of, not one of those fancy plastic ones they have now. Anyways, I was trying to use the hook part of it to scratch my back and I ended up stabbing myself. I then reflexively jerked it upwards and ended up with the two inch long deep scratch.
My ex-boss did something very similar to this a couple years ago. He was taking a whiz at a urinal at work, sneezed, and cut his head open on the plumbing that leads into the top of the urinal. The funny thing is, the next day, someone taped bundles of paper towels over the sharp edges so he wouldn’t do it again.
I think I already listed all my other stupid stories on the other thread but to sum up:
cut chin open at age 5 when I went flying off one of those stupid toys that you push with your feet
cut chin open again less than a year later, when I chose to ride my tricycle with my roller skates on
jump to age 30 when instead of draining the pasta water in the sink, I managed (no idea how) to spill all over my legs. I’m still working through my fear of pasta. (cooking tip: do not cook pasta wearing only your underware
Trying to get to my first day of work as a buyer and tripped down the stairs in my heels, tearing a hole in my brand new suit and a big scar on my elbow
Once again trying to get to work and was trying to get something out of the bathroom cabinet and somehow pull the cord of the unplugged but still very hot, curling iron, landing on my arm. Can’t even explain what the scar looks like.
And most recently…I bike about 15 miles everyday. On the way to the trail, I attempted to toss out my empty juice can at the Shell station on the corner while riding. Not only did I miss the garbage can, I somehow fell over. I didn’t fall off the bike, I fell WITH the bike. The Shell is at an extremely busy intersection and it was during rush hour. Huge bruises on the insides of both thighs, huge bruise on the outside of left leg from hitting the ground and scraped the hell out my hands. If that wasn’t bad enough, I almost fell again a number of times during my ride because every time I thought about falling at the Shell station, I would bust out laughing and almost lose my balance.
Frankly, I’m amazed I’ve managed to make it to 33 without killing myself.
