BTW, I have no feeling on the left side, or top of my right index finger
I would have paid to help clean that up. Is there any way I can comfort you in your time of pain?
Tripler
I’m nice. Trust me . . .
I feel yore pain. Or, rather, I don’t feel yore pain either.
You might try asking a surgeon to see if they’ve gotten any better at reconnecting nerves. I think I remember them telling me that after a month or so, it became a lot harder, because the nerves would have formed new ends (that don’t connect anywhere). My brother (a radiologist) pushed me into getting the surgery right away, so it was all done within a few days of the injury.
If you’re out on Long Island (Hauppauge area), Dr. Anmar Mirza was the one who did the surgery. He was a pretty good surgeon – and the only one who dealt correctly with my insurance company. Tell him Achmed says hi.
Thank you, Johnny LA
Hugs are not only acceptible, they keep me sane. Or, as sane as I can be. I am not sure but I think I am sane. (If you have a differing opinion, love, please tell me so I can become a crazy lady, and reap the benefits!)
Scotti
Back in my Sophomore year of high school (about 87), I was dating a guy who had one of those 1960’s suped up Camaro’s with the pipes running along the side of the car. I got out of said car when he brought me home from school and hit both of the back of my ankles on the burning hot pipe and got 3rd degree burns! I went to the doctor and had to have bandages and crutches. Ouch!!!
While taking a bath, I was trying to cut off the bottom of a bottle of conditioner with a plastic razor when, mid-slice, my hand slipped and sliced the wrist holding the bottle.
The cut wasnt that big but it bled a lot, and it was hard to explain to my mom why I was going through the kitchen drawers looking for a bandaid while wrapped, dripping, in a towel.
I had to pay for the bottle of conditioner as my punishment, not for being an idiot and cutting myself, but for being an idiot and tearing a hole in the bottom of the bottle, so all the conditioner leaked out.
I also have some bruises on my legs leftover from my freshman year at college (I’m a junior now) from letting this guy bite me, but those arent really self- inflicted.
Scotticher said:
If that, and the even more common loving someone who doesn’t love you, counts then it would be pretty much universal.
Incidentally, I’m glad to see you weren’t shaken into a stupor yesterday. You can ignore the e-mail I just sent.
{{{{{{Scotti}}}}}}
(I’m sure you’re saner that me…which may not be saying much.
[/hijack]
The worst phyical injury I’ve done myself was when I was 14 playing pickup football. My back started hurting in the middle of the game, but I kept playing. It has given me trouble ever since.
Hey, MrE my love, I am eminently sane. TOO sane, lots of people say. Lots of people say that I ought to branch out a little, and get at least SOMEWHAT crazy.
::Sigh::
I can only be who I am, honey. And I don’t do the crazy thing well. Well, maybe later, but so far I am much too boring. How nice it is that you like me.
(((MysterEcks)))
Scotti
I don’t like boring people, Scotti, so we have strong evidence that you’re not boring. And associating with me is admissible in 31 states and American Samoa as evidence of weirdness. 
Well, this should win me some kind of award for stupidity, if not seriousness of injury: you know how some furniture, like tables and such, come all bound up with ropes, secured to the underside with heavy staples? I was determined to remove those staples, so I got a pair of pliers and set to work. Of course, wise fella that I am, my face was directly behind the pliers when one of the staples suddenly came completely free. So basically I whacked myself in the face with the metal bottoms of the plier grips, making myself goofy with pain for about a minute. When all had cooled, I had a fresh, wicked vertical scar through my right eyebrow.
That eyebrow evidently has a death wish, because just this past Thanksgiving, I whacked myself in the face with the surprisingly-sharp edge of a car door (I didn’t walk into it, just opened it so fast that I clobbered myself with it). That one bled like a bastard, and left a scar that’s still very visible above the eyebrow, around an inch long. sigh. Women like scars, right?..
HEY! I said I didn’t want to be BORING, who said I was WEIRD? 
Sheesh, now I am going to have to re-evaluate my whole boring (or not) life. And my weird ( I don’t want to be WEIRD, just interesting) life.
Well, it is too much for me to handle tonight.
Night love, and I loved the excerpts from your novel!
Sleepy Scotti
I’m going to have to vote for my pregnancy. Granted, I had help inflicting that on myself.
My tale is a bit long, I tender my apology in advance.
Two years ago, I downed a third of a bottle of tequila and got my nipple pierced. (That wasn’t the injury). The next hungover morning, I stupidly took my kids to the babysitter’s instead of calling in sick to work, like a normal person. She had one of those “zero” landscape things in her front yard, the ones in the middle of the freaking desert where their front yard is DUST. The sidewalk was elevated about one and a half inches above said dust/dirt. I was carrying my then almost one year-old daughter in her carseat, being VERY careful not to let it brush against my poor abused nipple. My five year-old son rushed by and I side-stepped to keep him from pushing the carseat against my previously mentioned bit. I caught my left foot just on the edge of the ledge of the sidewalk and felt my ankle turn, very very slowly. As I started to go down, I knew I didn’t want to drop/flip or otherwise cause injury to my daughter, so I let my foot take all the damage to make sure the carseat with precious baby went straight down. Limp into the sitter’s house, then to my car. I realized something was wrong with a stick shift when my left foot felt worse than my nipple on that particular morning. I called TG, told him I “needed to go to hospital” after my foot swelled up to the point I couldn’t put my shoe back on. On the way, I told him the story, and all he said was,
“Only you could break your foot falling off a sidewalk”
Turned out it wasn’t broken, I had only torn all the ligaments in my foot, but every doc in the urgent care had to ask how I did it after I told the admitting nurse, “I fell off the sidewalk.”
I think it was when I accidently crucified myself to a fence I was building with an airgun.
That was pretty bad. But at least it was unexpected and quick.
Uncrucifying my self was worse, overall. It was expected and much less quick.
Thats wasn’t the worst one, but it was the only one I could think of to top **psychobunny[/]'s cleavage burn.
owww… :eek:
Having grown up on a farm, I accumulated scars at quite a prodigious rate. Glass, barbed wire, bicycles, etc. The worst one was when I was in the hay barn, walking across the stacked hay. My leg slipped into a crack, sliding past a corrogated metal roof housing the water pump. Since I had also torn my jeans, I hid this injury from my dad, and told him I had to return to the house, which was 1/4 of a mile away. No pain whatsoever until I got my leg into the bathtub to rinse the dust & blood away from the 7-inch gash. Then, WOW! Darn, did that thing light up! No stitches, 'cause hey, guys like scars, right?
When I was 2 years old, I sliced my left ring finger off in a folding chair. It was reattatched successfully; I have full feeling in the finger, although the nail is bent at a strange angle and there’s a lot of scar tissue on the back.
When I was a senior in high school, I was playing a paparazzo (sp?) in the Hollywood-themed homecoming parade. I was carrying my mom’s super-cool camera with it’s giant telephoto lens and bigass flash. I was goofing off taking pictures of the crowd when I realized that I was falling behind the senior float. I jogged backwards for a few steps, taking more shots of the crowd, and as I turned to catch up, I tripped over my own feet. As I fell, I thought “I am going to break my mother’s camera, which is older than I am and probably cost more than all of my internal organs.” The PROTECT CAMERA protocol caused me to twist as I fell, which meant that, instead of skinning my knees on the town’s main street and going on with my life, I fell backwards onto the pavement and knocked myself unconcious for several seconds in front of the entire town. I needed three stitches for the cut on my scalp, and the witnesses have never let me forget it.
I probably have five or ten other hilarious self-inflicted headwound stories, but this post is getting long and I can’t really remember them all that well anyway.
Does emergency root canal count? I think it should since it was my own fault for refusing to go to the dentist for over a year. You’d think I learned my lesson, but I’m really worried I might have to do another one soon. I lost a filling last new year (yeah, that’s over a year ago) and I never went to the dentist. Now I’ve waited so long that I’m absolutely terrified of what they’ll say to me, and what they’ll put me through.
No. Laughing gas doesn’t help. I almost pee in my pants every time I see a dentist. But maybe I could laugh about peeing in my pants if I had some laughing gas…
When I was a kid, my brother once closed the door right in front of me. It pissed me off, and instead of opening the door to kick his ass, I started pounding on it. It was a glass door on a glass-enclosed veranda, you know the type with lots of tiny, brittle panes of glass. My parents witnessed the whole thing, but I guess they were tired of my drama queen act and just decided to let me vent for a while. Well, naturally, the glass broke. For some reason, I wasn’t pounding with my fist but with my wrist. My mother almost had a heart attac and so did I. I didn’t hit any arteries, but I still have scarring on my wrist. I’ve had to explain to people that I’m not suicidal, nor have I ever been.
This story is absolutely true and I still have the scars to prove it. I live near Cincinnati and every year a local radio station WEBN hosts a fireworks display combined with Riverfest. This consists of a huge celebration with live bands, local celebrities and just general partying. No party is complete without food and drinks, I mean beer and lots of it which is great except for the fact that beer and lots of it only leads to piss and lots of it. Now the planners woefully underestimated how many port-a-potties to order; there were half a million people and like 20 potties. There was literally a waiting line to get into the bushes. So my sisters and I stood in line to wait for our turns in the bush. I was first and being a modest type of person, I decided to turn around and face the path so that I could see if anyone was approaching and make the necessary adjustments needed to maintain my modesty.
Did I mention that the bushes were on the edge of the riverbank with a steep slope littered with bolders, refuse and of course the runnoff from all the previous users? Well, when I squatted down, facing what seemed to be only slightly uphill, I lost my balance and tumbled backwards downhill, over the bolders and refuse—sort of like that “agony of defeat guy” on Wide World of Sports. I ended up wallowing in the muck with the crotch of my jeans stuck behind my head and my knees on either side of my ears. I’m not normally that limber so I was stuck in that position broken, bleeding and humiliated. Of course I called out for my sisters to please, for the love of God, help me. My shouts of course attracted the attention of all the other would-be bush-users who now stood at the top of the hill with my sisters looking at me. My sisters were of no help since they were reduced to convulsions, laughing and nearly pissing their pants. They tossed down useful comments like “I’m not going down there”, “just get up”, “you can do it”, and “say you really need a bikini wax”. Only with much contorting, crying and praying was I able to get the crotch of my pants back over my head and regain my composure. I then crawled back up that damn hill and took a bow while I received a standing ovation. I had several cuts and scrapes on my arms, my back looked like hamburger and I pulled a hamstring. Oh but the emotional pain was much worse.
[sub] do I win? [/sub]
IMHO, you are sane as long as you question your sanity. If you are convinced you are sane, you probably aren’t.
Uh oh.
I was called “weird” and “scary” here 
er… you win
:eek: