What's that scar on your forehead?
What's that scar on your forehead?
What happened to your forehead?
How'd you scrape your forehead.
* * * * * * sigh * * * * * *
St. Patrick's day rises to the same level of amateur night shennanigans as St. Valentines day, in my less than humble opinion. That makes my Harry Potter-esque visage all the more laughable.
I wasn't drinking.
I made the 70 mile trek to attend a St. Tiki Day bbq and party. Despite my green t-shirt, copper locks, freckles and slate colored eyes (me Irish Heritage, just call me Colleen) I think Luau/Tiki/Island is a much more enjoyable party theme. BBQ, not corned beef. Which tastes better a Mai Tai or Green Beer? Tiki Torches! Getting Lei'd. Yeah, I thought you'd see it that way.
Anyhow, see there was this fencepost. Or maybe it was a fence. I'd been squatting down to chat with people. And then I stood up. And, well, there might have been other factors too, but I never saw the fencepost. I just woke up -- on the ground, with a headache. I was instantly proclaimed not bleeding. Resume Party.
Once I got home I saw the goose egg, and the lightening bolt shaped scrape. Stupid really. I don't even have a good story, just a fence, or a fencepost, or something. I didn't even pull a proper Shane MacGowan.
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4 comments:
Awwww.
*hugs*, gentle of course. I sowwy your heady bone got hurt.
Poor thing. Gentle rubs.
Thanks for the huggles. The forehead is surprisingly painful, even two days after the fact.
At least I only fell over once. The hostess keeled over twice. But she was drinking booze and I was drinking diet coke.
Ah well.
Och! Poor QIR. I bit pavement on Monday on my way back from work, flew out of my shoes, it was rainy and puddly and I got all kinds of wet, scraped hands and all. Sucky sucky.
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