|not the brightest crayon in the box
||[Apr. 27th, 2007|08:14 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...
As a child, I was the quiet type. Mostly in the corner, reading a book or drawing or what have you. Not that this ever stopped me from doing some really stupid shit in the name of "I wonder what'll happen if..."|
In my time, I have:
* hit firecrackers with a hammer to make them explode.
* sword-fought with long fluorescent lightbulbs found in the dumpster (why was I playing in the dumpster? I don't know, either)
* jumped off the roof into the swimming pool. The shallow end. Good thing I was short, or else my knees would've been driven up into my chest.
* took a running leap over a barbed wire fence, caught my shorts on them, and dangled upside down with the barbed wire partly in my shorts and partly in the skin of my upper thigh.
* did a backflip off the monkey bars during recess. That one ended with a broken wrist and a split lip.
* totally de-hymenized myself at about the age of four while trooping about in the house in my mom's high heels. I took a wrong step, my foot folded under me, and the spike heel went right into my girly bits.
* while playing tag with the dog (in the house) (and yes, the dog played tag with me - I was an only child), I jumped over the couch and fell face-first into the glass coffee table. And then the dog jumped on my head. Stitches in the face. The dog thought it was funny. My mom did not.
* sprayed hairspray on the sides of my shoes, then lit them on fire. Put rubber cement on my shoes, and then lit that on fire. Melted plastic sides of tennis shoes? Stick to the skin underneath. Just so ya know.
* killed flies by making fireballs out of the aforementioned hairspray and lighter (ahh, I miss the days of Aquanet hairspray. That shit was awesomely flammable!)
And the one that nearly did kill me: while visiting friends of my parents, I went outside to play with their son, Cal. Cal was a budding stuntman. At eight, he'd broken every bone in his body at least once, I think. They lived in Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles, at the very top of a steep hill. Not only was their house on stilts, their driveway was a straight shot into the street, then down the hill allll the way down to the canyon intersection. So Cal was showing off with his new skateboard, and I was bored. He'd given me his old, f'd up skateboard to play with, because I was just a girl and he didn't want me scratching up his new board. I practiced skating down the driveway, ending up on my ass each time. After eating it for the fifth or sixth time and sick of getting laughed at by ol' Cal, I had a horrible lightbulb come on in my brain. I'd seen the luge on the winter Olympics, and thought it was pretty cool. So, long hill + skateboard = street luge! I was brilliant! I got myself laid out on the board, feet downhill, and had Cal give me a push. Away I went, somehow staying on the board while I rocketed down the hill. Then I realized the intersection was coming up, and I had to stop myself somehow. I put my feet down, but I was - yes - barefoot, and it hurt so much, I pulled my feet up again. Instead of hurling myself off the board, I went straight through the intersection (only a two-lane road, the light was red, not many cars, but still), over a curb, and into the parking lot of a little grocery store. I put my feet down again, which slowed me enough to slam into a parking divider and then right into the brick wall of the store.
I swear, my short young life flashed before my eyes when I went through that intersection. I just remember horns blaring and seeing car tires closer up than I ever had before. I thought about the gross film about bike safety the cops had shown at my elementary school, and the picture of the kid with his head crushed like a watermelon under the front of a car. I would be smushed. It was almost as bad as being eaten alive, or peeing your pants in class.
I ended up with no skin on the bottoms of my feet, my overalls ripped up the sides, my forearms and hands skinned up and crammed full of dirt and gravel, a bloody nose, and the imprint of a brick-shaped bruise on the side of my face. I then had to walk myself back up that hill, bleeding and sniffling, and had to face my parents. They were tipsy on strawberry daiquiris, and at first laughed at me. Then they saw the bloody footprints I was making on their friends nice white carpet. At first they thought Cal beat me up, and I nearly went with that story until he ratted me out. We both got grounded, and it took me almost a week before I could walk normally again.
Never did take to skateboarding much after that.