Bang your head

I am not now, nor have I ever been, the epitome of gracefulness.  At age two, I fell out of the car and broke my collar bone.  Age three, header into the door jamb, leaving a nice scar on my cheek and inside my lower lip.  My first day of third grade?  Basketball to the head.  Eighth grade?  Faceplant into the asphalt track.  There's that giant chunk of chin I took out with a sharp new razor, unaccustomed as I am to shaving said chin.  Matches the chunk I took out of my ankle going over the handlebars of my bike.  MY bike, to be clear.  I merely knocked the wind out of myself the other two times I went over other handlebars.  My hands and arms and legs are all scarred like a five-year-old's.  I have a rather impressive collection.

The other night should have come as no surprise to me then, as I was blotting blood from my forehead following a gardening accident.  I could have put my eye out, so the gash is almost uneventful.  I had a tetanus shot in 2002, so I'm good for another year.  The cut probably won't even scar, good thing since I can't afford any further damage to my mug.  It should heal before my niece's baptism this weekend, though there's always Photoshop to the rescue if not.  But still, I have to smack myself for not paying attention. 

And that might leave a mark.