Well, scars are a sign of stupidity,
and I'm a stupendously stupid person. Or at least, at times I am. Based on the number of scars I have, pretty fucking frequently.

There would be the one directly in the top of my head, from when I was about 8 years old, and used to stand in my mates garden throwing darts into the air and seeing where they landed.

And of course, the one in the center of my hand, from probably around the same time, which came about because I wanted to cut an empty coke bottle in half, so I held it lengthways in my hand, got a big fucking knife, then pushed it clean through both bottle and hand. And I thought my mum would be pissed off, so I just scurried upstairs and proceeded to use wads of lav roll to mop up the blood..

My knuckles, from when I was on my bike at age 9, on the pavement, following my mate's dad's car as he drove home, when all of a sudden there was a pile of bricks in my way, and I had to swerve into a lamp post. Flew 5 feet through the air, then landed and skidded a further 5 on my face, hands, and knees. Remarkable recovery really, as it was looking pretty likely I'd have a funky face for the rest of my life at one point, and I was reminded throughout the summer on a daily basis of my stupidity, as walking home meant following the trickle of blood, which went from the bottom of the road in a constant stream right up to my doorway.

And then, my favourite, the gash in my leg. About 14 when this one happened- I was round at my best mates house, with another of my friends, and we had just polished off bottles of random unbranded whiskey and vodka, and were planning the rest of the evening. I reached forward to grab the playstation pad for a quick bash on Crash Bandicoot (Who I blame to this day) and slipped off the chair, and onto a pint glass, which shattered into my leg. Unfortunately, my friends were a little too pissed to realise quite how serious it was, and while I was lying on the back lawn gushing blood into the grass, they where playing with his little brother's go kart. Eventually, he decided he'd better do something, as I was looking pretty fucking pale at this point, so he went to the first aid box and returned with a box of elastoplasts. Only problem being that the gash itself was about 7 inches long, 2 deep, and because it was right by the tendon, the edges were pulling it open- so it was also about 3 inches wide. So he put on the biggest plasters he had, which immediately fell off in the flood of claret, then decided it was more sensible to use about 15 tiny ones to try and cover it up. Just before I passed out, I had the forethought to raise my leg onto a table- which is pretty fucking lucky really, because the doctor told me the next day that if I hadn't I may have bled to death. So, I obviously aint *that* stupid..

That said, the next morning, after throwing away the congealed plaster tastiness and wringing the blood out of my sock and shoe (both of which where still completely soaked through), I decided to go ahead with our plan and walk into town to do some shopping. Just before we were leaving, though, his mum saw all the little white tabs from the plasters littered all over the floor, and asked what had happened, to which my mate replied, "Oh, he had a bit of an accident." She decided she'd better take a look at it, as she's a nurse. She almost passed out.
4 hours waiting for my Dad at the hospital, continually being told off for leaving my trouser leg up because I was freaking out the clientele.
Still, wasn't too bad really.. 26 stitches in the end, 12 of which were internal.

Oh, and there's also the chemical burn on my wrist from the doddering, clumsy old bint who masquraded as a chemistry teacher at my high school.
(PsychoApeMan Riding a white pig to the edge of Lapland, Fri 4 Feb 2005, 15:34, Reply)