I Nearly Got Decapitated When I Was 8

First off, I have to tell you. This post is dedicated to one of the funniest, craziest, most adorable-even-at-her-worst ladies I know. My dear Jenna. Without you, I'd probably go insane and think I'm a horrible mother with too much fondness for wine. Instead, I revel in the knowledge that sometimes, you can hate your kids AND that I just have a healthy appreciation for red wine. Thank you. I love you. An incredible amount, and I would have married you and bought you many a bacon-themed gift, had not you married a man. It's cool. I get it. You have to keep up appearances. I got you. ;)


As for the rest of you sillies who rush here to read this every single time I write something, may the lord have mercy on your souls. But thank you for giving me a false sense of meaning in my life, and something to do with it. I love you guys. You're all probably retarded, based on how many of you read this, but nonetheless, I love you. Don't take that to mean that I won't use you in my blogs, however. Because I totally will. And then I'll refer to you by your initials. Except for Jenna up there. I want her to know I'm shit-talking her in my blog. She loves me, so she has to accept it. 


To be honest, I've had way more near-death experiences than I'd like to recount. But, because they're hilarious, I'm going to recount them for you. Because I'm amazeballs that way. But I'm mainly writing on this topic at the request of my J-boo, because, well, I'm amazing and loving that way, and what J-boo asks for, she gets. 


Usually, my near-death experiences are incredibly over-dramatic works of art. Like the time I did a three point turn on a country road, my brakes failed, and my car went careening down the side of a ravine and landed up against a fence... Yeah, THAT was pretty traumatic. Not only for me, but for Ruby, my car, who received most of her damage when my lovely friend Big B couldn't fit out of the door since it was pushed up against the fence. Rather than slide across the front seat, like a NORMAL PERSON, this fucker smashes the door repeatedly against the fence and crushes it in until he has enough room to get out. Gee, thanks, guy. Dick. And then the 5 of us walk up to a horribly dilapidated farmhouse, since none of our phones are working, and we're literally in the middle of nowhere, and there's no hope that anyone will be able to be flagged down. So we approach  this house, which is sure to be the death of us all, and I tell the others, if they start snatching us, RUN! As fast as you can! Do not stop! Then a goat bleats, and scares the shit out of all of us, and we scream, and I'm pretty sure they answered the door with a shotgun. Long story short, I was incredibly surprised that they didn't kill us, and I was certain they followed me home after they pulled my car up the ravine and were planning to kill me in my sleep. It was like Children of The Corn, I tell you. Not to mention I smelled gas fumes for weeks after my car had been on its side for an hour, and I lived in fear it would blow at any minute. I didn't smoke for two weeks.

And then there was the time I had a riser shelf fall on my head while I was putting griddles on it... Yeah. If someone tells you that you CAN do something, don't believe them that you SHOULD. Because you should NOT. That many griddles and pans should not be stuck on a shelf. Because it will collapse and take you down... And you'll miss the last step of the ladder and do an awkward split that will pull your groin muscle and make you hurt in ways you didn't think possible without some sort of illegal activity involved.

Or the time I was almost shoved down the stairs at school, and I caught myself from falling on the first step down... Whew. Thank god, right? No. I then let go of the banister to continue down the stairwell, and I twist my ankle and fall all the way down the full length of them. I kind of wish I had died on that one. I went from feeling ninja-badass to like a fucking clumsy elephant in the space of approximately 32 seconds. Nothing quite like a fall down the stairs in front of people you don't really care for to really make you feel wristy. Remember folks: don't play across the street. Always go up and down the tracks.

OOOOOH, I have a good one. Have you ever heard this one? How I got the scar on my forehead when I was 8? Oh, it's a great story. It also explains so much damage. Yeah, I'll give you a minute to put on your Depends. You gonna need 'em.

So I went to this awesome elementary school that I loved. I had the coolest third grade teacher, EVER. Mr. Krupke. I loved that man. I was weirded out at first that I had a man teacher, but then it turned out he was awesome so it was okay. Except for that time he made me scrub my face after I had colored on it with markers. It was makeup. He didn't understand or appreciate fashion. What the hell, dude. What. The. Hell. If he could see the third graders nowadays, he'd probably die of embarrassment on their behalf. I know I want to. So, anyway, at recess, we always played tag. Hell if I know why, it's just what we did. Well, me and the boys did. I usually played with the boys. The girls never wanted to play anything cool like tag. They were always being weird, and starting secret clubs. I just wanted to play games. Get out of my face with your secret club bullshit. Do I, in my pretty friggin' great watermelon shirt, look like I want to deal with your secret club about how much you love Jonathan Taylor Thomas? Because if you think I do, you need to have your eyes examined. By the way, I loved that watermelon shirt.
 So, anyway, as I recall, there used to be a bridge on this playground, but they took out the actual bridge. They did, however, leave the handrails. We were forever ducking under them, or playing limbo under them, or all around just playing on them. Well, I was being chased by 'it,' though I can't remember whom the 'it' was, or I'd probably go back and kick their ass for chasing me that day. So I'm tearing around the corner, and I get the bright idea to run under these handrails at full fucking speed to shake loose of this guy, who's right on my 6. Well, long story short, I remember sitting up, being totally confused why I'm sitting on the ground, cold ass pebbles all up in my shorts, and I look over at Julie, and her face gets this really weird, contorted look on it. And then she screams bloody murder, and I'm like, "What the fuck is her problem? I wish she'd shut up. She's giving me a headache." And then I look down and realize there is blood all over my beloved watermelon shirt. :( SADFACE! I walk over to the playground teacher, who takes one look at me and says, "Holy shit." I'm still kind of confused, but Mr. Krupke looks at me, and goes, "Jesus, kid, what did you do? Try to take it out with your head?" And for some reason, that's when I realized I was bleeding all over myself, and I held my head because I was sure my brains were going to leak out if I didn't squeeze them back in. 
 I go to the nurse's office, where I sit on a cold vinyl bed with an ice pack pressed against my brain in the hopes it will solidify my brains and keep them from leaking out, and they called my mommy to come get me and take me to the hospital... Also, my sisters were called to the office, and they had to follow a trail of blood to get to me. You know they were planning how to split up my belongings, until they realized I was going to live. Bitches.
 Yeah, 9 stitches and 3 hours later, I was laying at home, throwing my watermelon shirt in the trash because there was no possible way to save it. I mean, it was a white shirt, and the entire front was blood. I really think I was more hurt over the loss of that shirt than the fact my brains had leaked out on the playground in front of all of my friends. And you know the best part? When I started bleeding, one of the little bastards looked at me, smacked me on the arm, and said, "You're it!" I told him I thought I should go inside, since my brains were leaking, and he called me a cheater! The NERVE! I targeted that little bastard every time after that. Every single time. I really hated that kid. I also tripped him on the playground every chance I get. Nobody calls Debra a cheater and gets away with it. Nobody.

So, tell me your near-death experience stories. I want to hear them. :) Not to mention they'll cheer J-boo up after her surgery next week. Wait, don't make them too funny... What if she's on strict orders not to laugh? AH! Sucks to be her, then...