Cannibalism, Tickle-Me-Elmo, and a Super Sexy Picture of My Inner Lip: My “Life-Wounds”

It was pointed out to me recently that I should probably post something … since it’s been like, two months since my last post.

However… may I point out to you though that I’ve had almost 3,000 hits on my sexy centaur post alone the past two months while I’ve been gone? That’s right. I’m kind-of-but-not-really famous for writing about sexy centaurs. You’re welcome, Internet.

I considered posting one of my several started posts I’ve attempted the past two months, but I feel like they’re either too funny or not funny at all. I was tempted to post my Skittles post I’ve asked several of you for your input on, but I need to ration my high-quality posts because I like to save them for when you guys are starting to doubt my abilities –  then I’m like “oh, you think I am selling-out and writing only about boring, inane things now?  Well, suck on this post!”

Basically I don’t feel like my blog has sucked enough lately to justify using up one of my “lifeline posts.”  So, instead, you guys get to read about this.  Which is basically nothing.  I’m sorry.  I’ll probably be forced to use one of my lifelines soon enough.

I was looking around for things to write about and I got distracted by reminiscing about my bodily life-wounds.  I say “life-wounds” because I wanted to say “war-wounds” but I haven’t been in any wars (excluding my daily battle with the alarm clock. And lactose.). I still wanted to make myself sound awesome though, and “life-wounds” sounds pretty awesome – like, I was attacked by life.  Do you want to see a few of my life-wounds and hear the stories behind them????(I’m gonna pretend all of you just answered in one big overly happy tone of voice with cheering, applause, and multiple phrases of overjoyed endearment. Once again, Internet…. you. are. WELCOME.)

1.) Scar on Arm 

Disclaimer: all these photos are blurry and overexposed. Deal with it.

The fifth-grade, all-dolled-up me gets in line for the yearbook photos behind Oliver Kucharski. Oliver makes fun of my poofy, curled hair. Oliver tells me I look too girly. Fifth-grade, easily-duped-and-desperate-for-popularity-and-attention me grabs a nearby comb some previous elementary schooler left behind, and decides to wildly gnarl my hair however possible.

In my misguided attempts to de-girlify myself, I pulled a little too hard on a tangled knot of hair and ended up stabbing my left arm from the inertia created in said hair pull. Realizing my now-punctured arm was bleeding and I was starting to cry, I immediately regretted ever listening to Oliver and made sure I never listened to him again (Sidenote: I now wish I had listened to him the following year when he told me the Mrs. Veldman was about to catch me stealing the library pass, but you win some and lose some. And yes, I stole library passes as a child. I bet that says more about me than any of these scars do).

The photographer tried so hard to get me to smile for my photo and pat down my hair to a reasonable detanglement, but by then all I wanted to do was go home to my Beatrix Potter pink room with my teddy bear named Puffy and cry. Like a girl.

2.) Scar on Chin 

I am 7. Or like, 12. (Who remembers these things?) Anyway, I don’t even remember how I got there, but I was somehow at a public pool with my family and other summer-crazed Arizonians. I was young enough to think I could dive into the pool’s 6 foot deep end, yet tall enough to quickly find out I wasn’t.

A lot of memories after the dive are pretty blurry and smell like a lot of chlorine, but I do remember my mother casually walking me away from the pool and onto a recliner nearby. She sat me down, wrapped me in a towel, and then before I knew it I ended up in the hospital requiring stitches. Later my mom revealed to me that she was shushing everyone around me at the pool, silently telling them NOT to inform me that my chin had become a red Niagra Falls. So I was just sitting there, chilling out, absolutely clueless that an ambulance was on its way and my blurry dizziness wasn’t from swallowing too much chlorine after all. Go mom.

I actually ended up getting a Tickle-Me Elmo out of the whole ordeal too, so I’d say that things turned out alright in the end.

3.) Scar on Leg

I arrive at my very first volleyball match ever. Super stoked, a little nervous, and totally decked out in my kneepads and (typically uncomfortable spandex) uniform.

I open the car door to step out. Left leg, out and on the ground. Right leg, hit the side of the car door and somehow catch a bent piece of metal which scraped through my skin down to the bone, and on the ground.

Here’s the best part – I didn’t even notice that I was losing 10 gallons of blood per second until I got inside the gym for a few minutes. The car door had literally scraped out all my nerves along with my skin there, therefore making that part of my leg unable to feel anything. (To this day, I cannot feel anything on that part of my leg. Don’t anyone get any crazy ideas about stabbing me there now.)

Anyway, tetanus shots soon followed. Probably also rabies. Because car doors are totally known for their rabidity. (Wait a sec … “rabidity” is a word!  I don’t think it means what I think it means though… whatever.)

Okay, I just Googled it and apparently, “rabidity” means “excessive enthusiasm.”

Basically, I just told you that the car doors in Arizona are known for their excessive enthusiasm.

4.) Permanently Chewed-Off Mouth Skin

So ladylike.

Pretty gross title, right? (I had to catch your attention somehow. This blog post is even boring myself. Helllooooooooooo.).

A few years ago while licking my lips after devouring an Enchorito from Taco Bell (don’t hate), my tongue discovered I had these little nubs of skin on the inside of the corners of my mouth. They were both practically identical, and seemed to serve no real purpose. I was puzzled.

Several weeks later, one of my closest friends tapped me on the shoulder in my Music History class. “I don’t know how to ask this,” he started, “But … are you eating your mouth?”

Yes. Yes, I was. I realize that eating one’s own mouth skin isn’t exactly a “life-wound” like this post is supposed to be about, but I’m too far in to come back out yet. (…..)

Whenever I am truly lost in thought, I chew on the sides of my mouth. Equally, thank God. (You can thank my subconscious OCD for that). If that is not the weirdest thought-process reflex, I don’t know what is. I get that it’s a weird and probably cannibalistic habit, but I am choosing to blame all of Life’s intricate and puzzling problems that I have to think long and hard about for my mouth nubs.


Mouth nubs.


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