Ouchy

I just banged my head on the corner of the freezer door. I'll bet I'm well on my way to brain damage. I have hit my head on more things than most people my age. I've hit my head on more things than some people who hit their heads on things for a living. Curiously enough, my father often makes an entrance with a bandage on his head. It's so common a thing that you're less likely to ask what he hit his head on and more likely to ask if the gash goes to the bone. Genetically, I think my father managed to serve me with the most questionable of the bequests. Couldn't I have gotten his blue eyes instead?

Oh, sure, it's a cute sort of clumsiness, but, if you were having emergency heart transplant surgery, you wouldn't want me carrying the sloshing bowl of fluid and organ from the cooler to the operating table. I'd trip and spill it for sure. And then fall on it and mash it accidentally with the heel of my hand, trying to break my own fall. And I would scramble to piece it back together and pick the hair and bits of carpet out of it, but to no avail. And you would try to raise your fist and curse my name before succumbing to death, but in your weakened state, your fury would be mistaken for sentiment. And I would be comforted.

This has been a true story.