Well, ok, judging from the reception of my last post, which was stony silence, I will be sure not to post poetry here again unless the need is dire. In that case, due to popular demand (well, Fizz demand, but she’s popular, so it works), I will now tell you about the time I shut my face in the car door. And if this reminiscent mood continues on past the end of that story, I might go so far as to tell you another one in this very post (I’m babysitting right now and they don’t have a t.v. so who knows, I may be extra inspired this evening).

It was the summer of ‘02 and I had just turned 21. I had recently made the mistake of getting back together with a total tool of an ex boyfriend (the red flag of his mother crying and telling him to dump me the first time around because her sweet Catholic boy was dating a heathen Jew should have been enough, but I let him walk all over me and give me the silent treatment for a month after my junior year started before dumping me. I eventually pulled myself together and finally started dating again when lo and behold, who starts calling me? Douchebag ex telling me how he had made a huge mistake and all this freaky stuff had happened with his friend at school and yadda yadda yadda. At first I told him I wasn’t interested, but he began calling every day. Even got me a gift for Valentine’s Day. Had his parents give him one of the cars just so he could drive from Shippensburg to Indiana to visit me. He spent about 3 months doing this until I caved and agreed to date him again - sorry, the history was sort of necessary) and we were on our way back from lunch or something because I had to drive back up to Indiana for work (I was a banquet server at the Rustic Lodge in Indiana and was living there as well, but often came home to see the asshat….er…pardon me, bf at the time).

I pulled the car into the driveway and parked outside, as my dad’s vehicle was in the garage. At this time there was a large-ish pear tree next to the driveway that was growing out over the concrete and had not been pruned for quite a while. The pear tree was struck by lightening a few years later and never recovered. See, even trees are subject to karma (you’ll see what I mean in a second here). Anyway, when I got out of my side I couldn’t stand straight up without almost hitting my head on the lower branches of the tree, so I was ducking to avoid the tree. I slammed the car door shut and didn’t back up fast enough and the upper corner of my car door caught me right above my tear duct, right where the brow bone meets that top of the nose bone on the left side of my face. I heard the thunk and felt my contact slip out. I clapped my hand over my eye to save the lens and told the tool to go get me a towel and some ice.

Because the guy was a complete and total fucknut and the world’s biggest pussy to boot, he started crying and dashed into the house calling for my mother while I trailed behind with my hand over my eye, rummaging one handed through the kitchen drawers for an old towel. My dad, who was sitting in the living room, clueless to the situation since the bf had run right past him sobbing for my mommy without telling him why, heard me in the kitchen and promptly came over to help me get some ice for my face. It was then that I took my hand away from my eye and saw blood and started to freak a little bit. This was because, when I was in elementary school I learned about the parts of the eye. The eye keeps its shape because it’s full of a fluid called vitreous humor. I learned that if you puncture your eye and the vitreous humor leaks out, it can’t be replaced and your eye collapses on itself and poof, you have no eye. Well, because I am a nerd supreme and actually remembered this choice tidbit of eyeball trivia, I immediately assumed that I had popped my eyeball and all the fluid in my hand was not my eye tearing from the blow, but was, in fact, my vitreous humor and I was about to be missing an eye. Then I remembered that my contact was floating in the mess in my hand and after blinking a few times I realized the blood was from a cut above my eye and my vision, though slightly foggy, was still functioning properly.

I put my glasses on, dressed in my banquet server attire and asked my parents to drive me back to Indiana, as my vision hadn’t cleared in my left eye (and it wouldn’t for a few hours). And that is the story of how I shut my face in the car door. My boyfriend at the time cried more and freaked out harder than I did. Again, I don’t know how I missed the red flags. Guess I was struck dumb by the door to the skull thing.

P.S.- My back is killing me from hunching over the laptop and I’ll need something to post tomorrow anyway, so I’ll save my next memory for tomorrow.