ole!

When people see my crooked finger, I often retell my made up story of getting in a bar fight.  The story goes: my finger got caught on a nail on a bar stool right as I was going to crush it over Patrick's head in disputing the logic on my mother's words of wisdom relating to violence.  "If someone hits you, hit them back." Of course, no one believes me-- my mother actually did say that. The bar fight never happened at a bar. It happened at home.

However, this story of my cut on my nose needs some refining after some trial runs on the truth. While collecting supplies for Emily & Lynnette's 22nd Birthday Bash, we (Patrick, Addison, Jarred, & I) needed to grab a large green bowl to chill the copious amount of iced 2 liter Diet Coke bottles needed to keep the party going. Addison retrieved the bowl, hopped back into the front seat of the car, and proceeded to toss it into the backseat with little regard to the spatial awareness of  how close my head was to the back of his headrest. Bam. Bombs were dropped. Twice actually and then I felt better.

Earlier this morning, someone misinterpreted my usage of the word "bowl" as the word "bull" when I explained what happened to my face. I was actually pleased that someone would actually fathom/guess that an interaction involving a bull & myself as being a plausible event featured on my weekend.

However, "Wow, what a cool scar" and "You look really hardcore" were phrases that I did not hear verbally, but I knew they were thinking that anyway.

I think I may stick with my newly acquired scar story as the result of a feral animal with horns as opposed to a piece of plastic with it's intended use to hold liquid cocaine for women.