I Get Hurt A Lot (Part One)

So I started writing this post and realized its going to take quite some time to tell all these fucking stories about all the times I hurt myself doing stupid things so I've decided to break this shit up into a series of posts. A quick rundown of the injuries in this post are breaking my arm, golfball meets my eye, splitting my head at the olympics, splitting my head during tag, and the great game that was "Rock Fight." So yeah I get hurt a lot and these stories are only times that I have gotten hurt, not when I have hurt others, that’s a whole other post. My little brother will probably be the star of that one. But yeah anyways, on with the injuries.
I don’t know why these things happen to me but they fucking do. Now every kid out there gets hurt but I always got hurt in strange ways. I don’t know why but if some random shit is going to go down it usually happens to me. I have numerous scars on my head, some I don’t even know how the fuck they got there. I still have this one scar on my forehead that has been there since I was one and I have no fucking clue how the fuck it got there. My mom isn’t even sure and since I can’t remember shit from that age it will forever be a mystery.

For as much as I’ve been hurt I’ve only broken one bone and in my book that’s damn good. Shit I have broken more bones that belonged to other people than my own bones. I broke my brother’s arm, some kid’s leg and another kid’s collarbone. These weren’t intentional but shit happens. When I broke my right arm I was about 5 years old. I was up in a tree and tried to jump out but my fucking leg got caught on a branch. I ended up coming down face first so I stuck my arms out and tried to catch myself when I hit the ground. This should have worked but my right arm slipped and I crashed on it. What fucked me though was that there was this root sticking up out of the ground near the base of the tree. It bashed the shit out of my elbow and that fucking root is what broke my arm.

At five years old I didn’t really understand the severity of the injury so I just went home rubbing my arm. My arm was hurting like a bitch so I figured I would ask my dad what to do. He was studying and didn’t bother to look up. All he told me was “put some ice on it.” That’s what I did but it didn’t work so I went back and told my dad it still hurt. He said, “Just lay down.” I did that too but that didn’t work so I went back a third time and told him it still hurt. He told me to come over so he could get a better look and that’s when he said “GET IN THE CAR, NOW!!” My father was one hell of a nurturer. Thanks Dad.

Around the same age some older friends(1st graders) of mine decided we should try playing baseball. But we had one major problem and that was the fact that none of had a baseball. So in a spurt of brilliance someone suggested we use one of his father’s golf balls. We all agreed that it was a good idea and ran to his house to get a ball. Then we all picked positions, I was chosen to be pitcher (you might be able to figure out where this is going). At the time I thought it would be cool but later I would realize that no one else wanted to be that close to a kid hitting a golf ball with a bat. On the goddamn opening bitch of our broke ass World Series a kid whacks the ball and the motherfucking ball smacked me in my goddamn eye. I don’t remember anything hurting as much as that fucking golf ball did when is smashed into my fucking face. I started screaming like a motherfucker and ran home. I got a nice fat black eye from that shit.

Maybe a year later my parents were having people over for dinner or something. I thought grown ups were boring so I went into my room to play “Olympics.” You see I played this game by taking my mattress off my bed and propping it up on its side. I would then back up, run, and jump over it as if it were a hurdle. In a small crowded room this was a good idea and it was made even better when I did this with only my socks on. The result of my track and field aspirations was that I slipped and backed the back of my head into the corner post of my bed. My head fucking hurt so I went looking for a pillow, I grabbed this blue throw pillow my mom had and pressed it against the back of my head. I laid down on the floor of the closet where I found the pillow. I don’t know how much time passed before my parents found me lying there because after a while I think I passed out. You see unbeknownst to me I had actually split the back of my head open and was bleeding all over this pillow. When my parents got to wondering where the fuck I was they found me in the closet with a pillow that use to be blue. The pillow was now a nice shade red and actually dripping with blood. My mom fucking freaked out and they took me to some clinic. We were pretty fucking poor and my dad actually had to ask for less stitches because we couldn’t afford for them to put in a lot. I got seven stitches in the back of my head and man did that shit fucking hurt. But when I got them pulled out it hurt way worse. I remember being held down by both my parents and a few nurses because I kept kicking and screaming when they pulled out my stitches. The experience was so bad that years later I would be scared as fuck of getting stitches. This was not a good thing since I would actually need stitches later on in life.

Around the time I was in 2nd grade or so my friends and I use to play tag all the fucking time. Everyday after school we’d mob up to the complex’s playground and just chase each other. There was this winding slide that we use to run up backwards and then jump off in an attempt to lose whoever was “it.” We would jump off the slide and reach for this bar at the top of the fireman pole and then swing ourselves up on to this platform. It made us feel like superheroes when we actually pulled it off. One day I was “it” and I had to chase my friend James. He made a break for the slide and I chased after. He jumped and made it. But in an attempt to tag him in mid air I jumped to soon. This was not good because my head hit the part of the slide that winded above. Now it would have been cool if my head just hit the slide but there was a bolt that hung down that decided it wanted to remove some of my flesh. That shit sucked but I was able to get a wet rag from my friend Bomsok. I just held that on my head till the bleeding stopped and after a while I went back to playing tag.

Later on that year we had a bunch of kids at that same playground and no one could decide what game to play. No one had a football or a soccer ball and we couldn’t figure out anything to play. That was the day I created the game “Rock Fight.” This was a great fucking idea. Basically the game was played by splitting into two teams and throwing rocks at one another. No one could actually ever be taken out of the game just by getting tagged with a rock. So as long as you could stand to get hit with rocks you could play as long as you wanted. Now at first kids were just throwing pebbles and stuff. But we realized that the pebbles didn’t really hurt so kids started to get braver and throw larger rocks. Every once in a while someone would pick up a big ass rock and chuck it but never close enough to actually hurt someone. It was more about scaring kids by throwing the biggest rock you could grab.

Being the brilliant child that I was I devised a plan to sneak up and attack the other team from behind. I began collecting rocks and stuffing them in my pocket. Next I pretended to go pee behind a building but instead I went around the building and ducking behind cars I ran to the other side of the playground. Then in a moment of blazing fucking glory I bum rushed the other team letting out some yell as I bombarded them with a firestorm of rocks. Kids freaked out and made a break for it. It was quite a spectacular site to see a 6 year old kid pummeling 15 other six years olds with fists full of rocks. But then my moment of triumph quickly came to an end when Fabio, this Brazilian kid picked up some stones and chucked them right at me. I saw him cock his arm back and then I got the idea that I would dive forward and do a tuck and roll as I dodged his Brazilian rock throwing style. The problem was that I totally fucking failed and I actually dove right into the rock’s path as it struck me right in the goddamn side of the head. I still have the scar on the right side of my temple. It fucking hurt like a goddamn bitch. The side of my head was pouring blood. Some Iranian kid (forget his name) suggested I go see his mother because she was a nurse. This may have been the smart thing to do but I decided against it. You see I thought that if I went to a nurse she would put stitches in my head and I wasn’t having that. Instead I chose to hold a wet dishtowel against my head for the next 45 minutes until the bleeding stopped, which it eventually did.