Scars

I've never been a fan of hot objects. I don't suppose anybody really is, come to think of it. Growing up, the gas stove always made me nervous because you never QUITE knew when it would ignite. There would be clicking and then bam! Fireball. I'm exaggerating, but everything's a little more dramatic with fire.

I managed to make it through the first 24.5 years of my life without getting anything worse than a sunburn. My first actual burn came courtesy of the oven in my apartment and an oven mitt that was apparently too short for my gorilla arms. I got a nice little second degree burn JUST above the end of the mitt while taking a cake out. The nurse I spoke to at work suggested getting some vitamin E gel capsules to help minimize scarring, but I found myself not really caring. In fact, I kind of want more scars.

I think scars are interesting. Obviously, each one has a story. It may not be the most interesting story, but who cares? I can tell you about how I burned myself on the oven while taking out a birthday cake for my roommate's little brother. Or how I had a bunionectomy on my left foot that involved breaking my toe in two places and pinning it back together, resulting in a three inch hook-shaped scar. Or about the time I took a metal-smithing class in college and apparently got a piece of jeweler's saw blade stuck in my watch band, which led to a small jagged scar on the inside of my wrist that MIGHT seem suspicious if people didn't already know I am and always have been a pretty positive person. A majority of the other scars I've collected are from my roommate's cat Kahlua.

All this came up because I happen to burn myself on a hot pan just the other day. That's two burns in the past six months! And it looks like it'll be leaving a nice scar as well. But I really don't mind.

I don't really want to get rid of any of my scars. I happen to like them.

You know, once the painful part is over.