Your Hand Is Bandaged Because You Are Retarded

When I was somewhere around three, I reached up to the electric stove in our kitchen and placed my little hand right on a red-hot coiled burner. My dad still to this day recalls how the burn was in the same curled form on my mini-mitt, and from time to time could be seen as a sort of phantom's shadow long after I had healed. The only memory I have of this incident is being rushed to the bathroom for some much needed First Aid treatment.

Within six months I had done it again.

Why? It had to have hurt like hell the first time, so why did I through total self regard right out the window and volunteer for round two?

Of course there have been a lot of humorous speculations about my possible mental retardation being the cause. Owning my own self-decorated helmet as an adult probably does very little to make a case for something different.

When I think back on my antics as an adult, the lack of self-regard in my act is what sticks with me.

I could go in to the whole symbolism of the pattern as I got older, but that would be creepy for a blog. I would hate for anyone to stumble upon my drivel and think I am a freak. I am confident that if I wrap things up here, all of this will look completely normal. Riiiggghhht.

Actually I just wanted to post a picture of my brother's ass on my blog first thing on a Monday morning, so had to spin a little tale to go with the visual. Yeah, that's the good stuff.