Scars

Unlike many (most?) folks, I really kind of enjoy having scars. From what I can figure, most people think they're flaws, or imperfections. Detract from the big picture, or something.

But not me. More often than not, they have a good story behind them ("Well, I had the baby in one hand and a chainsaw in the other..."), but more importantly, having scars kind of makes me feel like I've lived. Y'know? Participated. Done stuff that was dangerous. Looked into the face of death. Lived on the edge.

You know, like ironing.

Yes, the newest addition to my scar collection I got while ironing my dress. It was crazy! Outside, the world rolled by, unsuspecting. Inside, blithe pop music filled the air, giving no hint of the doom about to befall me. The iron rested on the blue and white striped board, burning with pent up fury. Like a coiled spring, it waited. And waited. Oh, how it seethed.

With an innocence usually reserved for infants, I approached the board with fabric in hand. Tension mounted! The universe held its breath! I picked up the iron, ran it over the fabric. Oh! This was the final injustice! It could take the abuse no longer! Coming to rest back on its base after this indiginty, it lashed out at its abuser --

"OUCH! FUCK!"

Burned my index finger and knuckle pretty good. Purt near had to have it amputated. As it was, I had to suck the venom out myself, which was hard to to on account of the fact that I'd gone nearly blind by that time. It felt as if the demons of hell themselves were a-chasin' me, and it was all I could do to crawl to the freezer and get some Cherry Garcia to help with the pain.

Yyyep-pah. That's what happens when you live life on the edge, all right....

(See?? Good story!)