New bearings.
Okay. I think I got this thing down. After yesterday's vent about accomplishment, I finally found something to be a punk about. Bottom line is, I don't want to be a whiney-ass, excuse making, silver spoon licking/chasing, fucktard of tomorrow. I really hate the 15 and 16 yearolds populating my town, and the world to say. Rebellion against that which makes us stupid. Now avoiding hypocrisy is gonna be the real challenge.
Okay, now with all the necessary stuff outta the way ... Now, a story for my friend, Worldgineer.
I told this to K-sra a short while after it happened, and I'm afraid I came-off a little too foreward with all the gruesome details and explicatives. But there were a lot there - so I became gradually more afraid to telling my stories. But anyway ... here 'goes.
The night started out well enough, I guess. Blue and I were off to drink at the now closed favorite pub of ours (sniff). John, our dear friend was going to be our designated driver that evening, so he brought some lady-friends of his over to Blue's house while we drank. I guess one was trying to get to know him better or something, because they came in a pair, and one seemed a little more close to John than the other. The one that was trying to get with John was a wannabe gangsta-looking chick, and her friend was a stupid poser-looking punk-goth chick. Oh, well ... So Blue and I go and get SMASHED drunk at the pub. We call John in a drunken haze to come forth and pick us up, which I BARELY remember, but I did remember getting back to Blue's casa ...
Alright. Now this is where things start getting REALLY hazy. I don't exactly remember HOW me and this punk-goth behemoth started things, or exactly where things went wrong, but I can distinctly remember, she got the biggest fucking kitchen knife she could find, and she began to poke me in the stomach with it, and MAKE FUN OF ME. Sober, I don't stand for that kinda shit sober, and being drunk, you'd better believe there's gonna be some fucking consequences. So I get the knife away from her, and THROTTLE it into the countertop, point-down. In doing so my pinkie finger slips off the handle of the knife and down the blade.
This kind of injury was pretty damn serious, come to find out. I ended severing two tendons (one to the mid-finger, and one to the tip of my finger), both digital nerves, and an artery. Which means I'm spewing blood. Like 70's horror movie style.
And without missing a beat, without a hesitation, without a second-thought as to my injury, I start climbing all over punk-goth girl. Spewing blood into her face and screaming "YA' LIKE THAT, DON'TCHA BITCH?! YA LIKE THAT?! FUCKING HARDCORE AIN'TCHA?! YEAAAAAAH!!" I chase her from the kitchen to the livingroom with this leaky piece of meat flopping to and fro on the end of my hand, leaving blood trails, and little crimson rainbows on the walls, floors and even the ceiling, SCREAMING at the top of my lungs, cussing and grinning from ear to ear. Once she reached the livingroom, she huddled-up in the fetal position on the couch, and continued to scream as I hung my hand over her until the bleeding went from "firehose" to "slow drip." I beckon to Blue "I'm hurt!" To which he responds "How bad?" I briefly display my hanging finger, and he tosses me a shirt from across the house and says "Sorry, man, I can't drive ..."
Moments later John arrives from picking up another friend of ours. One we know a lot better and like. I hustle Megan out of the passanger side of John's truck and tell John quite politely "Hospital, please." And without hesitation, we were off to the emergency room at Baptist St. Anthony's. I pass-out not once, but twice from blood loss, and John, bless his heart was keeping me awake on the way there. Once we got there, they whisked me away to the back rooms, and immediately assigned me a doctor.
Origonally, the doctors wanted to just take me to the OR and remove the portion of finger I had managed to seperate from my drunk body. But luck (I guess) was on my side, and they decded they could do SOMETHING with it, so they sent me home with 8 stitches, and said "Call this doctor in the morning."
Total damage to ME was two tendons, both nerves, one artery, and joint damage. $15,000 bill, and no way to pay. The reconstructive surgeon told me the realy progress was going to me made in therapy. So I have that to look foreward to 3 times a week, and whenever I think of it at home. As for punk-goth bitch, I was told it took more than 2 HOURS to get her calm enough so she could speak in complete sentences. It took more than an hours to get her clean, and even more yelling and cussing to ger her to calm the hell down. Her gangsta friend that she showed up with was helping to clean the blood out of her nose, ears, eyes and mouth instead of spending time with John. She turned out to be pretty cool in the end, but Oh well ... We like to think that everytime a guy like me drinks, a psychiatrist gets another paycheck. Thats how I know 9 and a half fingers is just as good as ten.
Okay, now with all the necessary stuff outta the way ... Now, a story for my friend, Worldgineer.
I told this to K-sra a short while after it happened, and I'm afraid I came-off a little too foreward with all the gruesome details and explicatives. But there were a lot there - so I became gradually more afraid to telling my stories. But anyway ... here 'goes.
The night started out well enough, I guess. Blue and I were off to drink at the now closed favorite pub of ours (sniff). John, our dear friend was going to be our designated driver that evening, so he brought some lady-friends of his over to Blue's house while we drank. I guess one was trying to get to know him better or something, because they came in a pair, and one seemed a little more close to John than the other. The one that was trying to get with John was a wannabe gangsta-looking chick, and her friend was a stupid poser-looking punk-goth chick. Oh, well ... So Blue and I go and get SMASHED drunk at the pub. We call John in a drunken haze to come forth and pick us up, which I BARELY remember, but I did remember getting back to Blue's casa ...
Alright. Now this is where things start getting REALLY hazy. I don't exactly remember HOW me and this punk-goth behemoth started things, or exactly where things went wrong, but I can distinctly remember, she got the biggest fucking kitchen knife she could find, and she began to poke me in the stomach with it, and MAKE FUN OF ME. Sober, I don't stand for that kinda shit sober, and being drunk, you'd better believe there's gonna be some fucking consequences. So I get the knife away from her, and THROTTLE it into the countertop, point-down. In doing so my pinkie finger slips off the handle of the knife and down the blade.
This kind of injury was pretty damn serious, come to find out. I ended severing two tendons (one to the mid-finger, and one to the tip of my finger), both digital nerves, and an artery. Which means I'm spewing blood. Like 70's horror movie style.
And without missing a beat, without a hesitation, without a second-thought as to my injury, I start climbing all over punk-goth girl. Spewing blood into her face and screaming "YA' LIKE THAT, DON'TCHA BITCH?! YA LIKE THAT?! FUCKING HARDCORE AIN'TCHA?! YEAAAAAAH!!" I chase her from the kitchen to the livingroom with this leaky piece of meat flopping to and fro on the end of my hand, leaving blood trails, and little crimson rainbows on the walls, floors and even the ceiling, SCREAMING at the top of my lungs, cussing and grinning from ear to ear. Once she reached the livingroom, she huddled-up in the fetal position on the couch, and continued to scream as I hung my hand over her until the bleeding went from "firehose" to "slow drip." I beckon to Blue "I'm hurt!" To which he responds "How bad?" I briefly display my hanging finger, and he tosses me a shirt from across the house and says "Sorry, man, I can't drive ..."
Moments later John arrives from picking up another friend of ours. One we know a lot better and like. I hustle Megan out of the passanger side of John's truck and tell John quite politely "Hospital, please." And without hesitation, we were off to the emergency room at Baptist St. Anthony's. I pass-out not once, but twice from blood loss, and John, bless his heart was keeping me awake on the way there. Once we got there, they whisked me away to the back rooms, and immediately assigned me a doctor.
Origonally, the doctors wanted to just take me to the OR and remove the portion of finger I had managed to seperate from my drunk body. But luck (I guess) was on my side, and they decded they could do SOMETHING with it, so they sent me home with 8 stitches, and said "Call this doctor in the morning."
Total damage to ME was two tendons, both nerves, one artery, and joint damage. $15,000 bill, and no way to pay. The reconstructive surgeon told me the realy progress was going to me made in therapy. So I have that to look foreward to 3 times a week, and whenever I think of it at home. As for punk-goth bitch, I was told it took more than 2 HOURS to get her calm enough so she could speak in complete sentences. It took more than an hours to get her clean, and even more yelling and cussing to ger her to calm the hell down. Her gangsta friend that she showed up with was helping to clean the blood out of her nose, ears, eyes and mouth instead of spending time with John. She turned out to be pretty cool in the end, but Oh well ... We like to think that everytime a guy like me drinks, a psychiatrist gets another paycheck. Thats how I know 9 and a half fingers is just as good as ten.
posted by Letsbuildafort at 10:04 PM
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