My scars are jumped-up feeble ingrates
cultivating a healthy attitude towards danger (running away) and hermetic lifestyle has left my skin white, unblemished, and with that fluorescent sheen that comes only from living in air-conditioned boxes under sickly yellow strip lighting.


White 1cm line on my right hand below a knuckle. One boring summer day aged about 8 I decided to _borrow_ a large Stanley knife from Dads toolbox and try carving totem poles from bits of log. Armed thusly I ran full-pelt to the garden in search of bits of dead tree to brutalise. What I got was savaged by a rosebush that somehow managed to rip my hand open while scooting past. Cue walking into kitchen, bleeding over the floor, clutching a large knife and claiming a rose thorn did it..

Forked Eyebrow. Parents claim this is from stealing scissors as a baby, then lying on stomach staring at them. Apparently I then fell forward, missing my eye by an inch, slashing my face and needing to go to hospital. Which begs the question wtf were they doing watching me lie there playing with scissors?

The intricate lattice of angry red lines extending up my arms like lacy vamp gloves are the ongoing handiwork of Ibis, the feral lynx-cat who treats hands as things to be chewed. Along with books, phones, speaker wires, other cats.. no wonder the bastards so fat.
(Hikikomori** watching cartoons on, Tue 8 Feb 2005, 0:44, Reply)