This entry was posted on 4/3/2006 6:19 PM and is filed under uncategorized.
Guess what I did yesterday. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait.
Where did I put that ibuprofen? You have a guess yet? No? Well, keep trying. Sheesh.
Maybe another icepack wouldn't hurt. No guess yet? Anybody? Beuller? No?
Ok, I'll tell you, but you're gonna feel really silly that you didn't guess.
Yesterday, I shot myself in the head. With a gun. There, you feel silly now, don't you?
Now, before you scramble to post the number for the suicide prevention hotline (or in the case of my family, show up at my door to have me committed), it was not intentional. The gun was not aimed at my head at the time. It was aimed at the fucking target in the exact opposite direction from my head.
Here's how it went down, yo. (I can talk like that cause I got me some street cred, what with the whole getting shot in the head thing) Pookie and I went to the shooting range yesterday to try out the new .38 Special he gifted me with the other day (please get all redneck southerner jokes out of the way now, please.).
After getting fairly proficient with that (meaning if you break into my house when my husband is gone, and I shoot at you, I will hit you. I can't guarantee where I'll hit you, though. So I wouldn't break into my house if I were you.), we tried out the shotgun he won at the last NRA banquet.
The first shot I took with it kicked the everloving shit out of my shoulder and I decided I wasn't firing that bad boy anymore, but hubby put some new shells in (half the load or something) and tried it. He said there wasn't anywhere near the kick and so I tried it again.
He was right, not near the kick and fun to shoot. So I took one more shot and OW, OW Motherfucking OW.
I think I threw the gun at Pookie, which is not gun safety in the strictest sense, but I needed my hands free to clutch my head and yell. It's my pathetic version of a survival instinct: ditch what hurt you, clutch the painful bits and yell.
We're not sure what hit me; if it was bit of rust from the iron target making it's way over to me, or a pellet from the shell ricocheting back to me. It doesn't really matter what little bitty piece of metal hit me, because it fucking hurt either way.
Now, obviously, I'm just fine. No brain damage. (shut up) It's just a little boo boo (except, if I didn't mention before, OW). It looks like an infected pimple. I even went to work today, which irritated Pookie a little (by 'irritated' I mean lovingly concerned, of course). He said that I would have yelled at him at him if he tried to go to work after kind of getting shot. He has a point. I wouldn't have gone to work if I hadn't felt I really needed to. Turns out I could have taken the day, but by the time I realized that, I was up to my ass in hairy, dirty dogs.
So, just a little boo boo, but I admit to enjoying the shock factor of telling people I shot myself in the head. I'm immature that way. Plus, it really does hurt. Like a motherfucker.
Oh, and before someone asks, no, I don't plan on going hunting with Vice President Cheney anytime soon. I say this only because eleventy kajillion people asked me that today and I thought I'd save y'all the effort.
P.S. I have actually recreated this post from memory because my session 'expired' just as I hit Save on my first effort. This supports the no brain damage thing (again, shut up) but really pissed me off. I obsessively saved this one to draft every other paragraph so it wouldn't happen again. I expect props for this as my instinct was to get pissed off and frustrated and post something like " Got shot. Head hurts. Send chocolate".
You can still send chocolate, though. That would be the right thing to do.
