The stories of my scars.
Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.
I am a skinny fellow. It could be said that in my younger days I enjoyed squeezing into tight spaces. The spaces in between cars or behind couches became a venue to showcase my talent. This talent is one that I have little responsibility for. My genetic disposition, or as some may call it, being born in the sign of the bean pole, warrants me little, to none, of the credit I so longingly sought by squeezing behind things.
At one such time, I began to squeeze behind the couch. A sharp pain met my right foot. I quickly sat down on the carpet to see why my foot hurt so badly. I found a large and wide cut with something white (which I assumed was tendons) inside.
Calmly and collectedly I said, “Dad will you come look at my foot?”
He looked at it and off we went to the emergency room.
