Well, first let me apologize for my absence. I've been working overtime at my new job, and then some, to the point where my time sheet yelled at me for working more hours than basic overtime allows. Yeah....
Anyway, I can finally do some sort of blog post, and for that I'm doing another Road Trip Wednesday! A story about scars.
I'm actually intrigued and fascinated by scars -- both physical and emotional. In fact, when I first decided that I wanted to be a writer, my first huge story idea (which is now most likely never going to see the light of day, but will always hold a special place in my heart,) was inspired by a scar. Well, actually a picture of a boy whose hair style covered most of his face, and then a friend of mine and myself got into an argument about whether or not that was attractive. In a moment of not wanting to lose the argument, I told him that he was insecure about a scar on his face that was gruesome and held memories of a day he'd rather forget.
Hmm, I'm getting inspired again..... and if you're interested, this is where you can find any work related to that character.
Moving on.... honestly, that was probably more interesting than my own scar story, but I must adhere to the Road Trip Wednesday prompt -- my own scars.
I have a few, some I don't even know how I got them. I've got one from a plastic muffin container. One from an iron. I have one on my eyebrow from the chicken pox in 1st grade. It was my first one, and my last one. And the reason why it scarred is because I was wearing a pair of paper glasses for the 100th day of school, (you know, where you look through the 00's,) and they fell and scratched it off. Now I have a scar on my face that I've had others, on more than one occasion, including my father, tell me "you have something white on your face, what is that?" Yeah, sorry, it doesn't come off.
A few years later we had a problem with bees in our house. They would just come in and hang out one summer. We had a cat that year, and he was the devil. (But that's beside the point.) One day, I chased him under my bed. I felt something hard and pointy on my arm, and for whatever reason, I thought it was a piece of mulch from a playground. I wondered what it was doing in my room, but when I looked at my arm, there was a dead bee sticking out of it.
Yes, the bee was dead. It was dead before I even fell on it. So yes, everybody, the one and only time I was stung by a bee... it was dead. And I fell on it.
I was young, so I freaked out. I ran to my mom, slightly hysterical, and she took it out, dropped it on the bathroom floor, and crushed it with a can of cat food. There is still a small scar on my right forearm.
That's about it. I've never had surgery, I've never needed stitches. My dogs have always been nice to me. I'm just a strange kid who doesn't watch where the iron is, or look for bees before I fall. Oh well. Thanks for reading!