Well, once when I was about seven, I tripped and fell, managing to slice the palm of my left hand to the bone. My father, lacking a medical degree, but with a lengthy track record of personal injury, decided that my profuse bleeding and screams of terror and agony were no reason to have me taken to a hospital for costly stitches. Heck no! Why would anyone want to do that when we can simply scrub the wound clean in a steaming hot bathtub full of soapy water and wrap it in gauze and tape for 6 weeks? No scar.
Then, in 4th grade, my mother, sister, and I were in a nasty wreck on SR15 north of Warsaw that totalled our Blazer and the Thunderbird that decided to slam into us. My sister, the brilliant young lass she is, decided that a 2nd grader has no need for a seatbelt, and became a large projectile for the duration of the accident... a projectile that would be launched at me, of course. The zipper on her coat ripped the fuck out of my chin... the window next to me rendered her unconscious. I ended up with 13 stitches and a scar that is only apparent when I forget to shave... for oh, let's say about 18 hours.
[ July 10, 2003, 07:48 PM: Message edited by: victim ]
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