Because dudes – they dig scars, right?
Yeah, with much help from my girl kitty (shout-out to Ms Lulu of the razor-sharp claws and the ninja moves) I’m sporting a little something I like to call “full facial laceration.” The “how” isn’t even that good of a story. I’m all “c’mere kitty” and she’s all “ouch, you’re holding me wrong!” and I’m all “dude, stop with the squirming!” and she’s all “what if I… gotta get… how about if I… flip… flipping around…” and then she did this cool, Cirque-du-Kitteh mid-grab flip-thing right around that would have been awesome if she hadn’t had all the claws extended and if some of those extended claws hadn’t streaked right across my face. My soft, squishy, easily-gashed face. Right on the front of my head.
That made it less awesome. And more “Holy crap, my face!!”
So then I’m sitting there holding my face back on w/ my hand and I’m aware of two things: 1) wow, this SUPER hurts!, 2) my hand is filling up with… something. The something was a liquid something, so next I’m running through all of the things that will be different now that I have just the one eye. (Bike might be a little tricky w/out depth of field. Spend ½ as much on eye-shadow. Cool eye patch! Etc.) Once the “something” filled up my hand and started running down on the cat she was all “Eww, eye juice! I’m outta here!”
This is when Dad noticed the face-clutching and asked, in that mellow Dad-tone, “hey, what happened?” And that’s when I said “Cat… got me… in the face…” and I took down my hand and tried to gauge the level of damage based on how horrific his expression was.
The good news is that the stuff filling my hand was tears. (because when you hurt your nose? SMARTIES! Think of how much your eyes water when you pluck a nose hair or pop a nose pimple. Now multiply that by jillions and jillions, and then double that, and then roll a 20-sided die and multiply your previous number by whatever you rolled on that 20-sided die (thereby allowing for your individual threshold for pain) and that’s how much it hurt. Hence the tears.)
(Important clarification: what I’m trying to say here is that I generally don’t cry. That I’m super-macho and stoic and you could show me a picture of bombs being dropped on a house full of orphans and nice little old ladies who just baked double-chocolate-chip brownies JUST FOR ME and I wouldn’t even burble a little bit. But this seriously hurt, yo? Yo.)
(Important additional clarification: now if the picture of the building being bombed contained even one critter? A bear or a puppy or a mouse or even those creepy looking little naked mole things from the zoo or even one little ladybug? Then I would cry. I would cry big, overflowing, splashing down the face tears. Because of the very important Femtastic rule: no critters are ever hurt. Ever.)
…now where was I? Oh, right - hand was full of manly, searing, pain-induced macho and stoic tears of pain, but contained NO BLOOD. OK, well not NO blood, but only a little trace amount of blood. Tears = yes, but blood = mostly no. WHEW! But the expression on the face of Dad was still pretty… startled. So I figured I’d go check the damage.
So now I get to wander around work with people either doing the “it’s HEEEDEOUS!!” face (ala Peter Lorre) or trying to pretend they don’t see my face while looking right at me, which tends to make them look off to the left side of my head. Like my talking to them is actually coming out in “talk bubbles” that they have to read to respond to. “bloop, bloop, bloop: you’re right, it IS cold today, random co-worker person! Say, do you see anything funny on my face?” At some point today when someone finally asks if my cat scratched me I’m going to respond with “no, why?” and then feel my face and go into full-on freak out mode. “Oh my god, what happened to my face? Oh god! The leprosy! It’s back! Don’t look at me, don’t touch me – UNCLEEEEEEN!!!!!” And then run away.
It’s going to be Cirque-du-Ninja-cat awesome.