Friday, October 28, 2011

My friend is trying to kill me.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am completely awesome at injuring myself. I am a complete and total walking disaster. Let me sketch you a quick background:

People who know me well lovingly remember me as the girl who once knocked herself out cold while skiing. (See what I did there? Skiing? Out cold?  Arngh, forget it. *shame*)  No lie, though. When I finally regained consciousness, there was a crowd of people surrounding me and the paramedics had already cut off my ski pants.  Cut. Off. My. Pants. It wasn't embarrassing at all. Luckily for me, I wasn't really injured. And luckily for everyone involved, I was wearing jeans under the ski pants. 

I have a true talent for falling down and bumping my head. I gather scrapes and bruises like it's my job. So my friends shouldn't have been too surprised when I damn near sliced my foot off.

Let me back up.  I live in Florida.  Did I tell you that?  Well anyway, usually it's around Octobertime when we say goodbye to the beach to face the cruel, harsh Florida winter that lies ahead. Last weekend, my friend Stef and I decided to visit the beach for one last tanning session of the season.  Okay, SHE went to get a tan.  On the other hand, *I* just come along for the ride because if I were one shade paler, I would be transparent and I have abandoned all hope that I will ever have a decent tan.

Getting a late start on the day *cough* because Stef is incessantly late *cough*, we decided that we didn't have time to drive all the way to the white, sandy, utopia beach we had planned to visit:

Instead, we went to a closer beach that is twice as beautiful.

Did I say twice as beautiful?  Because what I meant was "twice as disgusting as a sewage treatment plant".

The universe tried to tell me this was a bad idea.  The broken bottles in the parking lot should have been my first clue. After we parked we noticed that the sky had instantly changed from a brilliant blue to a "get the hell out of here" gray.  This, my stranger friends, is what we call foreshadowing.

Then as we unloaded the car, we found that our drinks had spilled all over the back seat, creating a slushy mess.  Mayday.  Litter was everywhere. With an environment like this, we thought, surely the water is crystal clear and free from debris.*

* denotes sarcasm

Despite the beach's junky appearance, Stef and I remained undeterred. We set up camp and I got my "tan" on. After a while, I ventured into the water to pee cool off. No sooner had I called out to Stef to join me than I stepped on the biggest, sharpest, MEANEST fucking barnacle ever to set barnacle in Tampa Bay. I screeched like a banshee. I did a hoppy dance. I shouted obscenities with no regard for the children nearby. Out of the 300 people in the water, *I* was the one person to get injured. Of course I was.

As I hippity-hopped back to shore, Stef glared at me with disdain. This conversation followed:

Stef:  Oh, stop whining. It's probably not that bad.

I look like a Civil War amputee. Pre-amputation.

Me: (*death glare*) Yeah, I'll just rub some dirt in it. (grabs towel to soak up blood)

Stef:  You don't need stitches.

Me: (pretty sure Stef is trying to kill me with gangrene) Sure I don't, Doctor Stef. I have shells and seaweed INSIDE my foot. I might die. Here, hold this. (tosses bloody towel to Stef)

Stef: Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!! Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew!

Me: Sorry. It's just a little blood. I can't stop bleeding. I'm going to bleed out on the ghetto beach.

Stef:  It's okay.  Here, lemme help you. (pours fucking antibacterial hand sanitizer into my sliced off foot)


Nearby children and parents: *shock and disbelief*

I don't know if you've ever had someone pour straight alcohol onto one of YOUR foot, but I don't advise it. It feels like someone is trying to saw off your foot with a rusty butter knife circa 1863. And then they spit into your open wound for good measure.  And then they set it on fire.  And then they insult your mother.

When I got home and my foot had finally stopped dumping the contents of my body on the the beach, my foot looked like this.

Despite the very real possibility of succumbing to gangrene or tetanus, I decided to forego the stitches on account of the hefty price tag. $300 for stitches?  pssshaww!  I can heal myself for free. I'm not cheap; I just prefer to spend my money on more important things, like vodka and Extra Sugarfree Gum.

In the end, though, my body healed the shit out of my heel.  I WIN THIS BATTLE, GANGRENE!!!! But my rockstar recovery begs the question: how will Stef try to kill me next?

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