Cold Showers Can Suck It

 Remember back when you were younger, and telling someone you had to take a cold shower was akin to grinding on them and telling them how sexy they were? Yeah... Reality effing check. When you become an adult, you know, and live in the ghetto, taking a cold shower means something entirely less sexy. Like the little bastards have been playing in the water closet again. Or the ugly old crone in #7 has a date, incredibly, and has taken a shower hot enough to melt tread off of a truck tire for HOURS. Or, like the last time the water heater went down, the ghetto-bypass system the wonderfully educated maintenance man [that should be read as the complete and total fucktard who couldn't figure out his ass from a monkey wrench] has backfired and flooded the entire hallway and will now take 3 days to fix. 

 Living in the ghetto has its advantages. No one pays attention when you beat your kids. No one pays attention when you beat your wife(or your husband, who should have known better than to act a fool like that after the last beating you gave him). And no one pays attention when you want to steal someone else's car, or at the very least, just break into it. 

 Ah, cold showers... So, I've taken them for about two weeks now, mainly because I kind of like feeling clean, even if I really am not because cold water just makes you THINK you got clean. You really didn't. It's like washing without using soap. You're still a disgusting hot mess, you just think no one else can tell. They can tell. OH, they can tell...

 The last two weeks have been like, lukewarm showers. Tolerable. Not great but tolerable. The last shower I took was Wednesday morning. I know this because I had to go to work at 1, and I decided I should probably not be disgusting and gross, which was a good decision, because sometimes men with lots of money come in, and what if my rich old man comes in but I'm all scuzzy and unshowered? He's gonna leave me to wallow in my own personal hell that is working and school. Seriously. Serious. Business. 

I didn't take a shower yesterday before class, because I was running late, and frankly, I didn't want to be late. I HATE walking in late to anything. Class, work, doctor appointment, grocery shopping trip that I planned to happen at a certain time. I hate it. People look at you like you're the epitome of time-wasting, and roll their eyes. Don't roll your eyes at me, EVER. I will punch in the back of the head until your eyeballs pop out. 

 Anyway, I just assumed I'd take one when I got home. I mean, it's not like there's anything to impress in my classes, with the exception of the really hot guy in my psych class who complimented me on my nail polish. But really, I'm not even interested in impressing him. Hell, impressing anyone is entirely too much work and not something I am even interested in doing. I haven't shaved my legs in 3 weeks. Seriously. What kind of impression do you think I really give a shit about giving? 

I get home after skipping my spanish class with the deaf-as-a-doorknob-professor, and there's not hot water. It's ice fucking cold. It's not chilly, it's not a tad nipply, it's shards of ice tearing into my skin cold. I've never been so dirty as to think an ice cold shower would fix me. NEVER. So I waited to take one before class this morning. BAD DECISION. It was even COLDER. Like, I thought I was going to pass out cold. I couldn't even wash my hands it was so cold. HOW does water get that cold?! It's not possible! At some point it has to become ice, doesn't it? Not in my life, it doesn't. Instead, I skipped class. Seriously. 

 I haven't showered in 2 days, I haven't taken a hot shower in 2 weeks, I'm close to losing my ever-loving mind. All I want to do is take a shower and get clean. I feel like the grossest person imaginable. Obviously, I am not, since I don't have my own reality show or anything celebrating my grossness, but still. All I can think is how gross it feels to go for two days without washing my hair. And then it happens...

I turn on the water and there is HOT WATER!!! Hallelujah, praise the lord, fly the flag, and say a prayer or something. It was disgusting, brown, filthy, rust water. Seriously, Lord help me, only in MY life. Only in MINE. And let me tell you, I contemplated showering in that water. Because it was fucking hot. I mean, I knew it wasn't going to make me clean, but it was hot and I was desperate. I seriously contemplated how dirty it would make me to shower in rusty hot water. I mean, a girl has basic needs. To be clean. To be washed. To have semi-clean hair, which is something that I don't think most moms experience for the first 3 years of having children.

Just as I had nearly dedicated myself to the decision that I was going to shower in what looked mostly like shit water, the pipes must have taken pity on me and gone completely clear. And that, my friends, is what I call a glorious effing happening. Because it's beautiful to be clean. And mainly, to have clean hair. I could go without a shower for months if I could always have clean hair.

Also, I'm aware that this follows no logical train of thought. That's okay. You have come to expect this. If you haven't by now, well then. You're obviously a little bit on the slow side. Go back and read from the beginning. I NEVER make sense. ;) 

Working Out Means Shenanigans!!!

If there were a Workouts Anonymous, this would be my return trip where I walk in with my head hung down in shame and I tell you how I fell off the workout wagon and I skinned my knee and busted my lip on the way down...

And then you would all hug me and probably grope me inappropriately, because that's the only thing group hugs are good for. Stranger feel-ups. Don't judge me. You get to a certain level of 'dry spell' and you just think, meh. Whatever. I'm taking what I can get.

 

Okay, you probably SHOULD judge me for that. That's sexual harassment, brotha, and will get you 2 to 5 years. And that's funnier if you read it "harris-ment." You're welcome.

Anyway, back to the wagon. I reached up, pulled my fat ass back onto the wagon, and just ran until I wanted to puke. Because punishment for falling off the wagon is going to keep me on it, right? RIGHT? RIIIIIIGHT? Thank you. I'm also pretty sure my arms are going to fall off, in which case, this shit's gonna get weird because I am not going to be the freak typing with her toes, so I suppose since my boobs are just sitting there doing nothing all day, that's who's going to be earning their keep around here from now on. I hope everyone plans on keeping rooms really cold...

So, when I work out, I always put in my earbuds and turn the music up as high as it can go(yay for tinnitus in my future!) and just go to town. The way I see it, if I'm focused on the music, I don't realize I just ran two miles, and killed my abs, until after the damage is already done. But every time I do that, I have this elaborate daydream(what the fuck should I call it, a fantasy? It's not kinky, or weird, I just imagine it's happening!) that someone's sneaking up behind me and going to attack me on the machine... There's a curio cabinet all catty-corner(shut up with your giggling at my inner hick. You just shut the fuck up.) from me that I can see behind me, and my mind starts seeing shadows go across it. Or the fan will move a piece of paper and I will scream and then trip and fall... 

Not many of you will be surprised by the trip and fall. You can go to hell. 

So far, the most exciting ending has been me tossing the bad guy over the front of the machine because he made the (horrible) mistake of grossly underestimating the fat girl on the treadmill from behind, and I taught that motha' a lesson he won't forget. As you can see, I have big dreams that involve ninjas and martial arts moves that normal people can't do. I'm also pretty sure I chose a ninja as the bad guy because they're little, and easily thrown. 

Well, this is a workout in the mind of Deb, who having fallen off the workout wagon had definitely hitched a ride on the drunk wagon... I really like the drunk wagon. Also, I want you all to know- Pacquiao was fucking robbed. And yes, I did spell that without help. I amaze myself. 

Look, Look, Look, Look, Hey...

How many times do I have to fucking say it? My name is NOT 'baby girl.'

Oh, haaaaaaay there, guys? How do you do? I haven't written you in a while, but I can't say I'm sorry about that. Because I'm not. I've had a pretty busy, fantabulous couple of weeks. But, back to the things I am not to be called...


"Baby Girl." Do I look like I'm 6lbs 8oz? Nope. I sure as hell don't. No part of me is baby sized. I've pushed a half-grown toddler out of my vagina. What makes you think I'm a 'girl?' Knock that shit off. I'm a grown ass adult. I'm 6 feet friggin' tall!!! Nothing 'baby' about me!


"Miss Lady." I hate the word lady. Lady is a four letter word that I don't appreciate. 


"Ma'am." If you'd like to see how it feels to get knocked upside the head with the business end of a stapler, call me ma'am one more fucking time. Do I look like I'm a goddamn cat lady? I'm in my mid-20's. Seriously. Ma'am is NOT a word to use with me. I will kick you in the face.


A couple other things you should know about me... I hate when people grab my fingers. As in, grabbing my fingers and pulling my hand to your face so you can compliment me on my beautiful fingers. Um, hey, dumbass- I have sausage fingers. You're fucking creepy. 


Staring deeply into someone's eyes for a few moments is okay, when both parties are willing participants. Staring deeply into someone's eyes for minutes at a time is weird. And it feels like eye rape. No one wants that. Seriously. No ONE wants it. Repeated compliments on the same thing are not okay, either. Telling me 17 times how much you like my eyes is not okay. I'm uncomfortable with compliments, specifically from people I'm not interested in being complimented by, and frankly, it borders on psychotic if you keep at it. I have to wonder if you have a "Debra" shrine in your basement...


Hitting on me at a Big Lots- not okay. You should not do that. Specifically while my mother is standing next to me. I mean, really? No. Don't. "Hello, ladiesssss..." I knew it was downhill from there... You wouldn't be pulling that shit if my dad were here. Some mountain man looking sumbitch standing next to me would have put a cap on your pickup line stream, huh? Weirdo... 


And one last thing to go out on- never park like a dick next to the Beemer with obvious dents in it. If I have to hit your car to open my door so I can get into it, I will slam it W I D E open. Into your nice, shiny, beautifully painted car door. And not worry a bit about it. Have a fabulous day. :) 

Dear Men:

It seems to me that we need a list laid out of rules for dating, so that we can all be on the same page. It's terribly frustrating trying to read people if we're in completely different chapters. So, I'm going to take that bullet for the team. I'll be the one who lays that shit out there for you all. 

Here's the first, most basic truth- Girls are easy. To understand, I mean. Not easy to sleep with. Well, some of us are... Some of us pass our vaginas around the neighborhood circle like it's a lost puppy flyer. Others of us make it so difficult to get into our pants, you'd think we'd need a crowbar to take them off. Yeah. Bitches be crazy, yo. Hold onto that statement. You'll hear it again.

Second truth- if you take us out, and pay for everything, we're inclined to think it's a date. Just so you're aware. Friends don't often go out and pay for each other. If you ask us out multiple times, we really start thinking it's dating. Just saying. And don't fight us to pay the bill. We are capable of it. We will pay it. We can pay it. We want to pay it. Stop pretending to be chivalrous. You're really not. I had to open my own damned door, for crying out loud. By the way, always open doors. If you don't, you're automatically off the second date list. 

Third truth- we will over-think EVERYTHING. We just DO. We will agonize over what you say and how you said it, and the thirty meanings it might have. And we'll inevitably ask 35 close girlfriends what you meant by it.

Fourth truth- We will send you a zillion text messages, and get pissed when you don't respond, because what else could you possibly be doing that involves not answering your goddamn phone? I KNOW you have it on you all the time for work, don't tell me you don't. But if you send us a zillion text messages? You're fucking clingy and have to go. "Hi." "Whatcha doin?" "Where ya at?" "What's up?" Don't do that shit. Don't do it. I'm telling you. Women freak over that shit. They start thinking you have nothing else to do. Possibly faking having a job. Living in your mother's basement and internet-stalking us. Installing gps in our cars so you can randomly 'run into us' at the store/gym/park. We don't like that.

Fifth truth- Ignoring our calls or text messages turns us into raging fucking stalk-aholics. If you're seeing someone else, or you just aren't interested... JUST SAY IT. You had balls enough to ask us out, have balls enough to say we're just friends from here on out. Because here's what we do- Hmmm... I sent him 4 texts today... Maybe I should send him more. No, I don't want to be weird. Well, wait, maybe he'll see how excited I am to talk to him, and he'll text back? No, I'll call. 14 times. But he won't know it's me every single time. I won't leave a message. I'm sure he's the only human in the world left that doesn't have caller ID. Maybe I'll go see if he's working... If his car is there, I'll just go in. I mean, I can make up a reason for why I was there. Right? That's normal? I can do that. I can just go in, casually bump into him, we'll chitchat, make plans for another date soon. Right? That's totally what I'll do. If he's not there... I'll drive by his house. I mean, maybe he's there. And if there's another car there that looks like it belongs to another girl, I'm going to march up to his door and give him a piece of my fucking mind. No one gets to treat me like crap... I'm not a toy to be played with and yanked around... OH! HE TEXTED ME BACK!!! He loves me... Seriously, guys. JUST. fucking. TELL US. No one likes being ignored, and no one wants to be your boredom buster. Don't be a douchenozzle.

Sixth truth- we know within 10 minutes of talking to you whether we'll sleep with you. EVER. If it takes six dates for us to even kiss you, trust me, we're not interested, and we're being complete assholes by not telling you. A throat punch would be acceptable in this instance. 

Seventh truth- we flirt. A lot. I don't know why, just that some of us do it more often and without forethought than others. I personally flirt a LOT. And if you are willing to talk to me about The Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit, and any number of other nerdy shit I am interested in, then yes. I will flirt like hell with you. I'll very possibly fall madly in love with you if you can use the different forms of 'their' and 'your' correctly. Typically, if we flirt with you repeatedly, and we are unattached, it means we are interested. So stop being weird. Stop flirting back if you're not interested. Asshat. Also, we flirt to get things we want. Well, some of us do. I personally don't,  but this is a general guide, not a guide for how to date me. I just like to throw random bits of awesome in there about myself so I seem pretty great, in case someone is reading this and thinks, she seems kind of cool... 


Eighth truth- Bitches be crazy, yo. We are. We ALL are. If she tells you she isn't like other girls, she is EXACTLY like other girls. If she tells you she hates drama, she starts most of it. If she tells you she doesn't get along with other girls, it's usually because she's uncomfortable with herself, and you will spend the majority of your relationship convincing her you're not cheating on her, or that she's beautiful to you. Look for girls who tell you what they are, as opposed to what they are not. And for god's sake, BELIEVE THEM when they tell you they're a bitch. Because you're going to do that "Oh, no, you're not a bitch. You're just honest. And that's cool," thing that all guys do, and when it turns out, no, she's right, she really is a bitch, you're going to look stupid. Hoo-rah, dumbass. 


Ninth truth- never trust a girl's birth control pills. There's a reason there are condoms. And there's a reason that she ooh's and aaaaah's at every baby that passes. If you leave it to pills, eventually, shit's gonna get fucked up. And I don't want to hear about how your life is over because you got some crazy ass baby-mama-drama shit going on. Because believe me, been there, done that. You could have figured that shit out. Prevention, moron, prevention.


Tenth truth- Be prepared to learn that the person you started dating isn't the person you really ARE dating. Some girls install a filter until we think we have you in our clutches, and then we unleash this incredibly different personality. Yeah, I know, it's totally confusing, and how the hell can you tell? Well, truth be told, I have no idea. All I can tell you is that you just read this entire thing, and are probably no more knowledgeable about women than you were when you started. Yeah, that's how I roll. Oh, and one more thing- a single flower is probably the sweetest thing ever. Girls love getting flowers. Single flowers say, "I was driving past a field of flowers, and thought of you, and I had to stop and grab it for you." Yeah, guaranteed awesome points. You're welcome for that. 

I'm Stalking You. Right Now.

First off, let me just say this- Do you have any idea how effing difficult it is to stalk someone on FB if you don't know their last name? SERIOUSLY. It's HARD! I have to research people you MIGHT be friends with, hope I can stalk their friends list in search of you, and basically, it gets really awkward. If I have to friend 25 people just to find you, I will do it. Because I'm dedicated to the stalker's cause, but still... Please wear your last name visible at all times. Thanks.

Although, some of you have names I can't even pronounce... Let alone spell. You can all just suck it.

Also, those of you named 'Shawn'- I love you. Those of you named 'Sean'- what the fuck is wrong with your parents? I don't know why I have such abiding distaste for the name Seal-with-an-N, but I do. I think it's because it just seems wrong. And because I have serious issues with wrongness. Well, in my own personal view of wrongness, by the way. I also feel like people who name their kid something like, 'Derek,' and then go and spell it retarded, like 'Derik' should be punched in the throat. Don't do that. No one thinks it's cool, or 'oh, my, how interesting! This kid's name is spelled completely different! They must be a super-unique individual.' No. What we really think is, 'Oh, look, this parent can't fucking spell. Wanted their kid to look cool, instead looks like a jackass.' 


And while I'm tangenting off on the subject, pronunciation, folks. PRONUNCIATION. For the last damned time, my kid's name is 'Brenna.' It is NOT 'Breanna,' nor is it 'Brenda,' nor is it 'Brennea.' There's nothing more annoying than hearing someone mispronounce a name. My name is Debra. Being called Deb-or-ah will get a punch in the junk. Calling Brenna 'Breanna' will get you stabbed with a rusty spoon. 


Everyone always tells me that I'm super violent and angry. You silly gooses. I'm not angry and violent. That's just how I describe things. If you think that's angry, you should see me when I'm really mad. If I'm laughing, I'm not mad. FYI. 


But let's face it... I'm kind of an asshole. And that's just how it is. I don't care who knows or thinks it. 

Traffic Courtesy, Mother F#cker. Use It.

I know, there was a swear word in the title. I'm sorry. But only kind of. Honestly. I am usually a bubbly, lovely, adorable ray of sunshine in others' lives. BUT when you get me behind the wheel of a car? I turn into a raging, fucking maniac...

I am pretty sure my Driver's Ed course wasn't specific to just me. I'm fairly certain that I didn't get a special class, with heavy emphasis on turn signals and proper lane usage. So why am I the only fucker doing both? Seriously... I HATE driving anymore. And there was a time when it was the only soothing thing I knew of. Now I just drink... and sing. Sometimes I drink AND sing. At the same time. I wish I could say that ends well, but it doesn't, and if I said it, well... I'm a shitty liar. 


I have a LOT of annoyances with people. I'm easily annoyed... mainly by dumb people. But turn signals? Oh, goodness graciousness. I want to beat people for failure to utilize something that keeps me from having to read your pathetically little mind. Since slamming your fucking Prius across four lanes is apparently the new 'cool' thing to do, and everybody's doing it, I suggest you all use your goddamn turn signals. Because here's another rule of the road I bet they never taught you in Driver's Ed, but they should have-
"Whoever has less to lose will always have right of way."
And let me tell you, the way I see it, I always have less to lose. I won't slam on my brakes to keep from hitting you. If you come over into my lane without enough room to really do so, I will hit you. I think you deserve a warning. I'll tap you first, then hit the gas and slam into you. You're welcome.

And am I the only one who listened when they said, "Do not pull out into traffic unless you know you have enough room to do so safely," because slow ass cars waiting until I'm only about 100 feet from them, and THEN pulling out in front of me and failing to accelerate make me feel super stabby. Like, spork stabby. Hell, rusty butterknife stabby. Don't do that. Don't do that shit. I will fuck you up. I will NOT stop. You do NOT want to bet your life on my fucking brakes and my reaction times. Because I promise, I will make you piss your pants by how late I decide to brake. 


Oh, and when you're on the highway, keep your slow ass in the right lane. If I have to pass your slow ass in the right lane, I'm going to make inappropriate gestures at you while your kids watch. Because you need to move the slow train to the appropriate track. It's illegal to stay in the left lane for longer than one mile unless you're passing anyway, so if I was a cop, you'd be fucked. And I wouldn't be nice about it, either. I'd totally give you the ticket. Just to ruin your damn day. 


Another thing I friggin' hate is when everyone is leaving a parking lot, and there's one asshole who is bound and determined not to allow ANYONE into the exit line. You and I both know someone let you in. Okay? The courteous thing is to allow cars in, one at a time. Each person lets one person in. Pretty simple. Don't be a dick. Don't be a damn assbag, just be courteous. Yeah, Mr. BJ III license plates from Wisconsin in the obviously-small-genitals-compensating-truck... Congratulations on winning the prize of getting to the highway one car-length before me. Guess what you won? An hour and a half sitting behind a ten car pile-up. Yeah, I read about it today... And I laughed. I'm pretty stoked I took the back roads. Being a dick rarely goes unrewarded. Go ahead and carry that lesson with you. Oh, and by the way, your plate, "BJ" is obviously wishful thinking. I'm going to guess it's been a few decades since your last blowjay. 


Whew... do I feel better. Mainly because I feel like maybe one or two people will read this, and stop pissing me off. There's always something positive to say about every situation. Some situations just take longer to evaluate. Seriously. Use your fucking turn signal. Because if you don't, I will break it off and shove it up your ass. Thanks. ;)

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...