MY EYES ARE UP HERE

I have a lot of scars. I’m not saying I look like some sort of pathetic knife-fighter (I say “pathetic” because if you’re good, people don’t get to cut you), but when you work as a veterinary assistant, there’s really no avoiding the occasional cut. Add to that the fact that I have a natural ability to forget about protecting myself when the adrenaline hits, and you have a recipe for violent blemishes.

Anyways, some of my scars are more unusual than others, and a few in particular have been the source of many an odd question.

These are the ones. I know the quality of the photo sucks, but I was trying to make the scars more distinctly visible. It worked, it just made my color all funny.

Now, I don’t mind when friends or even casual acquaintances ask me what happened to my chest. I’d probably be the one asking if I saw these scars on somebody else. However, it’s another thing entirely when random people feel they have the right to ask me about my scars while staring at my cleavage. I’m talking about:

--The assistant nurse who took off her shirt in the middle of my appointment to show me her own scars
--The woman I was serving at a restaurant who asked to touch them
--The girl who Facebook messaged me her condolences that I, too, had obviously been burned as a child
--The random passerby who wanted to know about my heart operation
--The fellow who tried to use them as a pick-up line, telling me that my “tribal scarring” was SO awesome

And

--Any other people who think that because I look slightly damaged I must be used to and indeed welcome intrusive questions.

To be fair to myself, I never behave like such a grump to their faces. I just complain later to my friends, and whine about it on my blog, without ever trying to actually change anything. I’m super effective like that.

Anyways, even after all this lead-up, I’m not going to tell you where I got these scars. At least, not yet. You’re going to have to work for it. For those of you who already know where the scars came from, I hope you enjoy the adventure anyway, for an adventure it shall be.

A Choose-Your-Own Adventure, to be exact. Prepare yourself.

Ready? Sure?

Okay then.

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1. You wake up one morning as a 17-year-old American girl with crazy hair and a well-earned reputation as a nerd. Lucky you. You’ve already applied for college at some of the most prestigious universities in the United States, and today, you receive notice about an admission decision. Not only have you been accepted, but the CIA has recognized the potential that everyone always told you that you had, and wants to enroll you in their super-secret spy training program. The letter does not self-detonate, so you toy with the idea that this is all an elaborate hoax by the people who always picked you last in gym class.
a. Go to Section 2 if you burn the letter to avoid being played for a fool, and vow revenge on those stupid joker who only resented you because it was so obvious how much potential you had (not because you were a teensy bit abrasive and stand-offish).
b. Go to Section 3 if you decide to take the letter at face-value and give this whole spy thing a try, even though you’re pretty sure that using your body to seduce secrets from important people will never be an option, since you’re saving yourself for LOVE, GOSH DARN IT.
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2. Due to your obsession with revenge, you spend the rest of your life alone and paranoid, trying to force people to like you with the mind control you’ve been practicing. You could swear the cat DID twitch that one time when you yelled at her with your powerful mind. Unfortunately, it never works, you never do anything exciting enough to merit scars, and you die of sheer boredom. Well, that was a stupid choice, wasn’t it?
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3. You go to spy school in a super-secret underground complex, graduate with honors and a perfect attendance award, and get your first mission. It takes place in Russia, like all awesome spy missions do, and you quickly infiltrate the target building to steal some crazy secrets about vodka and missiles and stuff. You have a partner, Fredericko, who accompanies you, and he says that to avoid getting caught with the secrets, you should burn them into your chest in Braille. He says he saw it done once on Jackass, so you think about it, considering the legitimacy of the source.
a. Go to Section 4 if you think this is a terrible, painful idea, and you really don’t want to give up your chances of becoming a neck/chest model.
b. Go to Section 5 if you give into Fredericko’s peer pressure, and allow him to perform amateur body modifications on you, as any true patriot would.
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4. Giving him the look of derision that he so richly deserves, you smack him upside the back of the head and proceed to use your newfound ninja-spy skills to escape from the building with the secret documents in your pocket. You safely board the plane to escape, but on the way back home, there is a malfunction in both engines at the same time, and your plane is forced into a crash-landing in the African jungle (your pilot was totally drunk and got lost; you probably shouldn’t let Fredericko hire pilots from Craigslist anymore). Everyone on the plane dies but you, which is good for Fredericko, since he probably would have died fast in the spy business anyway, considering his silly plans. You strike off into the jungle, knowing that with your survival skills and a random machete you found on the plane, you stand quite a good chance of making it to civilization. Unfortunately, you are set upon by a tribe of cannibals (which you only decide they are after they start trying to eat you; you’d never assume that they were cannibals, because you don’t like to be prejudiced). They take away your machete, but instead of using it to chop you up, they use some forks they found on the plane, because they appreciate the precision of small eating utensils. They might be cannibals, but they do have some manners, after all. As is her right, the chief demands the heart first, a delicacy that she always appreciates. Using the forks, the cannibals stab into your chest and you feel your survival instinct really start to kick in. You’d rather not have to kill anybody, since these people just seem to be really hungry, but you definitely don’t like getting stabbed.
a. Go to Section 6 if you decide to use some kung fu on their asses.
b. Go to Section 7 if you spend more than 10 seconds considering the ethical ramifications of self-defense in this situation.
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5. Fredericko takes so long doing the operation that you both are caught by guards who happen along. One of them is a blind man, which doesn’t make much sense, because how good of a guard could a blind man be? Anyways, he knows Braille, and he reads your chest and realizes that you’ve got some important information right there. After being groped, you are incarcerated, and again you die of boredom waiting for an arrangement to be made getting you back to America. You are really not good with the whole patience thing. They probably should have asked about that before asking you to be a spy.
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6. The cannibals, gathering from your stellar flying kicks that you’d rather not be eaten, leave well enough alone and let you escape. However, the little stabs on your chest didn’t get very deep, since the forks were rather dull, so you don’t have any new scars to show off. Next, you head to the nearest U.S. Embassy and get safe passage back home. After your harrowing adventure, the CIA shrink decides you need some time to rest and recuperate. One morning, as you lounge about in your bed with your laptop, you spill some of your free-trade, organic hot cocoa on your computer. This causes a one-in-a-million chain reaction that turns your lappy into a time machine. You are sucked in through the improbably small screen.
a. Go to Section 8 if you get sucked back in time….far, far back…
b. Go to Section 9 if your computer battery was quite low when you started web-surfing.
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7. As you are pondering whether or not to massacre innocent jungle people, who are only doing what is natural for them, they reach your heart with the dull forks. You die. You really sucked at this job. However, your conscience was clear as you died, so there’s that.

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8. You get sucked far enough back that you come to with a brontosaurus standing over you. Man, your computer is AWESOME. Unfortunately, the brontosaurus is only one of the players in the Cretaceous Period. Along comes a tyrannosaurus rex, stomping through the forest and scaring all of the other dinosaurs who were only minding their own business. You can’t run very fast, relatively speaking, because you are very tiny compared to most everybody else, so the t-rex zeroes in on you as an easy appetizer. As he chases you, the only place that offers some protection is a crevasse in a rock wall, which you squeeze back into as far as you can go. Fortunately, the t-rex’s ginormous head is far too large to come in after you, but his tiny arms are not. He swipes in at you like he’s trying to get the last pickle in the pickle jar, but he only manages to graze your chest, skipping over your sternum as he slices into your skin. Thankfully, at this point the battery on your laptop dies, severing this wormhole connection and zipping you back to present day. Your chest heals quickly, leaving no evidence that you ever encountered the terror of the T-Rex, and you decide to keep quiet about it so that they don’t have you committed.
a. Go to Section 10 if you decide to throw yourself back into spy work to erase the memory of your amazing adventure into time itself.
b. Go to Section 11 if you decide to spend a few more days at home to get yourself sounding and looking less crazy.
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9. Your computer battery dies just as you are being sucked into the wormhole you’ve created, and you are trapped in the swirling vortex of chaos. Fortunately, you get randomly run over by the Tardis, putting you out of your misery before you go insane. The Doctor assumes that the Tardis is supposed to make that bumping sound, and goes on about his day like nothing happened.
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10. You work so hard that you burn out in only a year, and retire from the CIA at the venerable age of 18, though you now look 35, thanks to all the stress. You live a very sedate life, and die at 87, though thanks to plastic surgery, you still look 35. It’s only fair. However, this is a very boring ending to the story, and does not involve scars, so I would suggest that you choose to proceed to Section 11 instead.
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11. It appears you have no sort of luck at all. You happen to be at home in bed one night when the aliens were looking for someone to abduct. You wake the next morning with no knowledge that anything untoward happened, but you have strange small cuts on your chest, and there’s a note on the pillow beside you. It’s from the aliens. They apologize for the intrusion, but they really needed some skin samples to complete their human clones, which they are developing into an army to take over planet Earth. They hope they did not cause you too much discomfort, and they want you to rest assured that the cuts will heal and fade as if nothing had ever happened. You are relieved, because after everything that has happened, you still harbor that dream of becoming a chest/neck model.
a. There are no more options here. Go to Section 12. Why? Because it’s my blog, and my scars. Deal with it.
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12. Within months of healing from the alien abduction, you begin to get strange bumps on your chest, which sting and ache and turn a reddish-pink color that stops them from ever blending in with the rest of your skin. You go to see various dermatologists about it, and are put on a regimen of 8 STEROID SHOTS, ONE FOR EACH SPOT, every single freaking week. The shots do nothing, other than hurt like nothing has hurt before. This really sucks. You could try plastic surgery, but that would probably just lead to more scarring. Some doctors claim you have keloid tendencies, which basically means that your body produces random scar tissue for no f*&ing reason, while other doctors merely stare at your chest in befuddlement. Nothing works. These scars will always be there, and they will always hurt. Probably. Nobody’s really sure. Prepare to spend the rest of your life fielding strange questions about these scars, and wondering whether potential mates are staring at your breasts or your oddly even disfigurement. Give up on the neck/chest model idea. That’s just not going to work unless somebody has a weird fetish. Good thing you’re still super awesome. Just go with that.

THE END

Confused? Good. So am I. Anyways, Section 12 is the true part, minus having to heal from an alien abduction. Probably. The scars have no obvious cause, and they resist every treatment tried so far. It’s okay, though. It’s really fun coming up with different stories about how they happened. Someday I’ll even be able to spin some of them with a straight face.

Have you heard the one about where I was saving a baby from a tiger…?

<3

I forgot to comment, oh my, what's my problem? This one seemed like it must have taken a lot of effort, but it was worth it! I loved even though I ended up getting abducted by aliens. :)

Brownie

--

Love Your Pearls

...the tiger yawned and the baby scowled and said, "Please stop yelling at me with your powerful mind." Right?

--

Well, of course

I mean, how else would that sentence end? :)

-- superKaiodee

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