I broke my arm sufficiently enough to require surgery, two 4-inch plates and 12 screws in my left forearm. The scars are significant, to say the least, and run along the inside and outside of my arm.
Shortly after the surgery I was sitting at a bar, a bit surly, drinking my usual - Jack with a Pabst back - when a man saddled up next to me. We had made passing eye contact a few minutes earlier when I was scanning the crowd for my friend. I knew it was coming from the way he sat down.
"Hey, I'm ______."
"Hi."
Slight pause.
"That's a sexy scar on your arm."
No fucking way. Are you kidding me? A sexy scar? Normally I might take the compliment, but at the point - just a few weeks after the uninsured, $10k surgery - I wasn't having it.
"Yeah. They just let me out of the hospital. I tried killing myself."
Then I threw the shot down the hatch and looked at him with what must have been a gnarly sneer.
Thankfully he got my point.
Shortly after the surgery I was sitting at a bar, a bit surly, drinking my usual - Jack with a Pabst back - when a man saddled up next to me. We had made passing eye contact a few minutes earlier when I was scanning the crowd for my friend. I knew it was coming from the way he sat down.
"Hey, I'm ______."
"Hi."
Slight pause.
"That's a sexy scar on your arm."
No fucking way. Are you kidding me? A sexy scar? Normally I might take the compliment, but at the point - just a few weeks after the uninsured, $10k surgery - I wasn't having it.
"Yeah. They just let me out of the hospital. I tried killing myself."
Then I threw the shot down the hatch and looked at him with what must have been a gnarly sneer.
Thankfully he got my point.
0 comments:
Post a Comment