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My guy has a number of scars; not all of them he wants to talk about. But to me, they're part of who he is, and I love who he is.
As for myself, I have a few scars. One of my favorites is from a lacrosse game in high school where another girl fell right in front of me and my leg landed on her upturned cleat, slicing through my spandex and across my thigh, leaving a nice gash. It's faded now, but still shows red after a shower. Another favorite was received when I dropped a four-burner Coleman stove on my leg. It was fucking heavy and the edge of it caught my skin. Owww. My third favorite is a hook-shaped scar on my right index finger I received while slicing bar lemons--it looks neat. But the scar I really earned is the one on my slightly disfigured and crooked right middle finger; I slammed it in the front door of my house when I was a kid and sliced it wide open. Then, not a week after it had healed, I got it stuck in a barstool and ripped off all the skin from the first knuckle down.
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If I am not better, at least I am different. --Jean-Jacques Rousseau
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