When I was 12, I crashed my bike, hard, on a Boy Scout bike hike (helmets, what are those? this is the 80’s sucka.). Starting three years later, I would go on to race bicycles for 7 straight years. Go figure. Anyway, today the pictures rose to the top of the historical swamp that is one’s life. This is the best way, I think, random, cluttered moments of total nostalgia. I am so proud of myself–I seriously screwed up me heed! I don’t post many pictures of myself on here, yet alone ones from childhood, but this was a major event (if you measure those by number of stitches–26 I think it was), and I just felt like sharing:
June 21, 1987, just home from the hospital, probably, the cleaning solution is still stained on my skin. I can see now where my face smeared itself across the huge rock in its way. Definately NOT a happy camper (ha ha no pun intended) at this point:
June 22nd, little bit recovered, only some of the gauze stuck completely to the arm wounds. The hip is looking great there too:
…the 23rd, enjoying the extra-sized knee action there. Thanks whoever got me the Garfield balloon:
I also cried a lot as a kid. I wish I could cry more now. Crying is good. At some point in my teens I stopped crying. That’s too bad. But if there was ever any doubt that I was a momma’s boy, this should put it to rest.