I have a slew of interesting scars. Upon seeing this task, I asked myself: Do I go with the scars on my knee from my epic childhood big wheel accident? Or the scratch marks on my hand from a little sister unwilling to back down from a fight? I decided to go with my favorite scar, right on the edge of my thumb:


The injury occurred right around when I was five years old. I LOVED apples.... still do. My mom would cut apples for me into nice, even segments.

On Saturdays, my mom like to sleep in late (which, by kid standards, is waking any time after 7am). Of course, I would get hungry. Like most five-year olds, after watching my mother prepare my apples quite a number of times, I was certain I could do it myself. Of course she said something like "*blah, blah, blah* Don't play with knives. *blah, blah, blah* You'll get hurt. *blah, blah, blah*"

Something like that. I wasn't really listening.

So, after queuing up my Saturday morning cartoons, I ambled into the kitchen. I grabbed an apple from the fridge. I couldn't find the paring knife, so I pulled out a cleaver, figuring that should be sharp enough...

It took all of 15 seconds for the blood to soil a significant portion of the apple. My mother was quite gracious, once she realized I hadn't hit a major artery. She patched me up and prepared a fresh apple and even gave me some honey with it. The band-aid helped heal the wound; the apple and honey helped heal my pride. Thanks, mom! :D