When I was a year old, I decided to climb this bookshelf that my daycare lady had in her house, for reasons that have been forgotten. As I hauled myself up to the second shelf, my tiny fingers clutching the top of the bookcase, my little shoe slipped and I hit my eye on the edge of the wooden frame. Of course I screamed like a banshee until my daycare lady came to find me gushing blood from the eye in her living room.
My mom came and picked me up and took me straight to my pediatrician who promptly informed her that he wouldn't give me stitches because he was worried I would end up with a big bald spot in my eyebrow and sue him 17 years later when I wasn't voted Prom Queen and blamed my scarred brow. He suggested that my mother take me to the hospital to see a specialty surgeon but by the time we got to the hospital and found a doctor that was actually willing to attempt to stitch up my eye, it had almost stopped bleeding.
Since we had spent all afternoon rushing around in somewhat of a panic trying to find a doctor with some balls, my mother had the surgeon stitch my eye up anyways. To this day, I have a line running through my left eyebrow but you can only see it if you look closely because my other eyebrow hairs cover it up. Oh, and I was never voted Prom Queen.
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