Ah, nothing says romance like swapping scar stories in an emergency room. She’s a keeper right there, Bodie!
I’ve got a pretty stupid scar story. I must have been about eight or so. I was playing outside in the playground at daycare when I saw a hub cap lying there in the grass. No one would have ever accused me of being terribly bright when I was that young so it should come as no small surprise to you to hear that I decided it would be fun to play frisbee with said hub cap. It’s round. It’s kinda curved. It looks like a metal frisbee anyway. Why not!
My friends must have been morons as well because they joined in with me. We got through one full rotation of passes and were feeling pretty confident. It was then that I missed my catch and the hub cap bounced off my hand (or so I thought), slammed me in the chest, and fell to the ground. Unfortunately, this particular hub cap was made of a heavy metal and had a rusty jagged edge. I looked down at my hand and saw a gaping, bloody wound on the top of my forefinger. Turns out the hub cap didn’t bounce off my hand. It sliced open my finger.
I was very lucky. It was my right hand, my drawing hand. I don’t know how deep the thing went, but fortunately I didn’t need stitches. Now I’ve got two little scars on my right forefinger reminding me to get friends who have sense enough to not throw a rust, jagged, heavy metal hub cap around a field like a frisbee.