My right index finger bears the marks of four teeth. I was feeding a shedding snake in a tank and the mouse wouldn't move, so she couldn't see it. In all of my 17-year-old brilliance, I reached in, flicked the mouse a bit, and then extracted my finger from the mouth of a 5.5" black florida pine snake. We never did gat along well after that. She tried to choke me 2 months later.
An ice cube once got caught in my snowcone maker that we used to make mixed drinks and basically because the water in Jax tastes terrible on certain sides of town. So I'd buy ice and shave it into my glass with the snow-cone maker. One got stuck. I tried to push it. I slashed a quarter inch circle of the tip of my right middle finger off.
I have hot glue scars on my fingers, a surgical scar from the removal of a gangilon cyst on my right wrist, peroneal tendon repair scar on my right ankle and a really funny one on my chest.
I was running through a bunch of underbrush at Girl Scout Camp when I was 16 or so (yes, I was, no the uniform was not attractive, and yes, I did get a kick-ass college scholarship for staying in) chasing the little kids. They ducked into a grouping of Australian Pine trees, and being the great leader that I was, I chased after the short little twits. And promptly stabbed myself in the chest with a sawed off branch. I have one of the three initial marks left on my right chest. It's quite funny. About 1.5 inches long in a perfectly straight, vertical line.
After writing all this, I'm starting to worry about the right side of me.
