It’s funny: you think you’re invincible, like nothing can hurt you, like you’re all immortal and shit, then something goes tragically, horribly awry, and you realize that in point of fact, you’re nothing but a big ol’ meatbag.
Yes, that’s me in the photo. (It’s the best I could do with the low-end camera on my Palm; if you didn’t know what you were seeing, you might assume I was one of the pinheads from Tod Browning’s Freaks.) It’s a shot of my chin. The muddled bit around the tip is where I cut myself wide open last night–like, seriously. Stab wound-deep.
I wish there were a glamorous story to go along with it–you know, a high speed car chase, a knife fight on the deck of a yacht, an attempted mugging in which I turned the tables and beat the holy hell out of my assailant while screaming, “You’re getting whipped by a pansy, boy!”
No such luck.
Fact of the matter is, I was setting up for an event yesterday afternoon, and as usual, I was running behind schedule. I dashed into the venue, arms loaded with crap, and proceeded to slam smack into a bench, which was placed conveniently at knee-level and was conveniently black, making it invisible to someone like me whose eyes were only beginning to adjust from afternoon glare to interior gloom. I went flying and caught myself with my chin. Perhaps a hand or arm would have been more sensible, but then, no one’s ever accused me of being the practical type.
Ultimately, I was fine. Sure, it was a little jarring, but I got right up and continued on my way. Staff at the venue were kinda freaked out and rushed over to help me, but I was all like, “Just get me to my co-workers, I’m running late.” Then I noticed the blood. Floor, shirt, tie: covered.
Thirty seconds later, I was in the men’s room, assessing the situation. The jittery staff (one of whom seemed less than keen on treating a bleeding faggot) brought me alcohol swabs, spray clotter, and butterfly stitches–none of which really solved the problem. Eventually the bleeding stopped enough so that I could wash out my tie in the sink (it’s a favorite of mine), but it was all too clear that I needed bona fide medical attention. Like, the kind you get at an emergency room. I washed up as best I could, checked in with my colleagues to make sure that everything was on-track, and left.
Four hours later, I arrived home with eight new stitches, a sore shoulder, a bruised calf, and a prescription for Vicodin. And only three days to go before the big homo Halloween weekend. If that ain’t perfect timing, I don’t know what is.
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