Scar

Scar

I beat the hell out of my hands. They are scarred and are frequently nicked, scraped, blistered, or just plain sore. Someone on Facebook commented that that’s because I Do Stuff, and I guess that’s true. Sometimes I do useful, creative stuff, and sometimes I do stupid stuff.

For example, the scar on my middle finger is from my fingers being crushed in the gears on a rusty antique cotton gin when I was nine. I don’t remember it hurting so much as me begging to go to the hospital for proper stitches. I was worried that someone might think it was paper towels and duct tape time, and I was pretty sure it was NOT. The ring finger on that hand was covered in stitches and was broken so badly that it couldn’t be set. They just sewed it up, bandaged it, and left it at that. It has a weird bend in the middle bone because of it, but it’s 100% functional, so I’m not complaining.

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