Ouch!

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For the look of it, I am a crash-test dummy.

By it I don't mean my right eyebrow. In that case, by the look of it, I'm a lousy street fighter, or worse.

I once read it's actually a syndrome. This actress with the difficult name has it, or so she claims. Maybe she's just clumsy, like I am. I mean Gwyneth Paltrow.

In the course of the last three months, I have bumped my head on several objects of different size, shape and mass (though somehow similar in how bountiful they were with sharp corners) at different speeds and for different reasons. I must blame margaritas (three of them) and running away from a stalker for the first one, which could have killed me, and I mean it. I've told virtually nobody about that little incident because I was scared to death just to think that I could have easily got killed, or worse ¬¬. And what a way to die! Smashing your brains all over downtown just because your speedy high-heels suddenly chose not to work on wet pavement. I should have had the council sued. Do you realize how hard local stone is? Anyway, after getting an X-ray and looking like Mobutu Yoruba for a week, my life was spared. I burnt the high-heels I was wearing, mind you. On the second ocassion I just missed my footing out in the garden, no subtances involved, just my two left feet. There's next to nothing but grass in the garden, however, I managed to land right on my right jaw onto the only piece of wall there is. I thought I was already done with massacring the right side of my head for the season, but, alas! no. No, no, no, no, no. As I was taking the towels out of the washing machine yesterday evening, my right eyebrow was ungracious enough as to suddenly crash on the cupboard, open door and all. What mothers are always warning us about (to no avail, apparently...) To be honest, it didn't hurt. It hurt so little that I paid no further attention to it until I noticed some dark drops (((of something that came from inside me so it could only be blood, or dirty words...))) on my fresh clean towels. Now, twenty-four hours later, I have a black eye, which is turning purple, and a half-inch cut, whose scar will finally make me look the mean bully I really am instead of the sweet, little girl you think I am.

Well, I'm not little, any way you look.





Moral(s):

• There's something wrong with my right side.
• That's a pretty oxymoron.
• I'll be careful, I promise, and watch my step, seriously, and avoid margaritas, mean it, and try to keep myself alive and kicking. Or just kicking.

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