Observe the two scars on the knuckle of my pinky.



Yeah, it was stupid to do. Yes, I still wish I hadn’t. Yes, it hurt like a son of a… but I have no regrets about it. I was hanging out with my pals at our normal hangout under the stairs. One of them was showing off his trusty gloves with the rock hard knuckles. Well, little ol’ me got the great idea to test those rock hard gloves against the equally rock hard wall. The wall won that fight. It broke the fifth metacarpal on my right hand; broke quite well, in fact, with the bone going from a hundred and eighty degree angle to a forty five degree angle. It actually didn’t hurt that much, even though I passed out on the way to the nurse’s station. The worst, or best, part of the whole experience was the fact I did this before first class and had to go through eight hours with my injury. I say best because I got to show off my little injury and gross out quite a few people. Fun. The punch itself left no obvious marks, other than the large bump of the broken bone. The doctor, though, made sure I had a lasting reminder of my stupidity. An operation later I have two metal pins inside of my hand and a large cast up to my elbow. The two scars that grace my hand is where they were shoved in and stayed for three months. Apparently these scars are like beauty, more than skin deep. They stretch about three inches INTO my hand. I can actually feel these inner scars if I squeeze between the ring and pinky fingers. It’s a comfort to know that if I ever lose my hand it has some distinguishing marks to help me find it.