Here's the story: I lived in a house that was probably 100 years old, legend had it that it had been converted from a carriage house. The kitchen window had one corner that tended to stick when I tried to crank it open. The window opened outward so the screen was on the inside. I was cleaning like a crazy woman because M and S were bringing their supercool friend Matt to visit and I tended to make up for my general poor housekeeping by overcompensating when company was due.
That darn window just would not open, no matter how hard I cranked. And believe me, I was getting really cranky. So I climbed to kneel up on the edge of the sink (bad idea #1). And then I pulled the screen part way out toward me and reached behind it, while balancing precariously, to get to the window (bad idea #2). And then I whacked the corner of the window
sill (bad idea #3) only I missed the sill and accidentally whacked the corner of the window, which my hand went right through.
After staring in confusion at the hole in the window for a few seconds, I examined my arm and ascertained that the damage- several small cuts- was confined to a small area on the inside of my wrist AND OMG IT'S RIGHT OVER ALL THOSE BUMPY BLUE VEINS IN THE SAME AREA PEOPLE SLIT THEIR WRISTS TO COMMIT SUICIDE AND I'M PROBABLY GOING TO DIE!!!
I had an immediate flashback of a story I'd read on the internet recently (this is why the internet is dangerous, and should be banned) about a guy who'd put his arm through an old window trying to break into his own house and severed an artery. He would have died on the front lawn if the roofing guy on the next house over hadn't spotted him and called an ambulance immediately.
So now I'm looking at these several small cuts, and sure, they're not really bleeding yet, but probably just because of some delayed-reaction-shock or maybe my blood levels are low- like a flat tire- and the gusher's taking a while to get all the way to the end of my arm, right? In any case, it's looking pretty certain that I'm going to pass out at any moment and bleed to death on the floor and while I plan out my funeral in my head and wonder how long it will take anyone to find my exsanguinated corpse, I decide that the only thing to do is the one thing is what anyone would do when uncertain what else to do: Call my mommy.
My parents lived a few minutes away at the time and I frantically called my mother, begging her to rush over quickly, before my artery started gushing. As I waited to feel light-headed, I stared at the cut on my wrist, all but willing it to bleed. After all, when you call your mom about bleeding to death she had better not arrive to find you with nothing a cotton ball and a band-aid couldn't fix.
She arrived moments later, breathless and worried, to find me sheepishly studying the thin line of blood on my wrist with a puzzled frown. Apparently, I had escaped the clutches of death. B
Mom was not thrilled. That might have been why she made such a cutting (Could I help it? No.) remark (see #88). As punishment she made me go with her to the nearby house of a friend of the family- a nurse- who, obviously in cahoots with my mother, proceeded to sympathetically fret over my
wound scratch until I wanted to crawl under the floorboards and die.
And then M & S and Matt came and M did boring work while Matt & S and I stayed up late and walked to the playground and climbed a tree while Matt clucked like a chicken (he's really good at that, he grew up on a chicken farm). It wuth great. Also, Matt brought special band aids.
So thats how I go the faint scar on the inside of my left wrist. Any questions?