OK, well, here's another one, briefly mentioned in the previous post.

I did a summer college program in between my junior and senior year of high school, where I got to go to the local college (later my alma mater) and take two classes over the course of five weeks while living there. This was the first time in my life I made the mistake of taking an 8 AM class, but (for the only time in my history of taking 8 AMs) I actually did attend the class about 95% of the time.

One morning I was walking up the stairs in the building, holding a glass bottle of juice in my hands, and kind of slowly running up the stairs. You know, the accelerated clip many people take when they are going up the stairs - not quite running, but not walking either. Anyway, as it happened, my shoe caught on the lip of the stair and I fell forward. This would not have been a big deal except for the glass in my hand. It hit the ground before I did, broke, and I lacerated myself pretty badly on the pieces.

Immediately I grabbed my sweatshirt and applied it to the bleeding. I don't like blood or gore so I didn't even look at the wound, just knew it was bad. I proceeded to the classroom - I was early - and got a classmate and the teacher's attention. They called an ambulance! At one point there was even concern I had cut open my wrist on the glass.

There is a longer story about how I was a (to-be) music major at the time and had to wait 8 hours to get stitches done by a cosmetic surgeon because we were worried about the cut potentially affecting my music. And there were the priceless moments where I told my mother "I didn't need stitches, we could just let this heal on its own" (it would have been a VERY ugly, twisted scar if that was the case) because I was pertified of needles and didn't want the painkiller injections or the stitches. The whole story culminates in me finding out that the shots of anesthetic that they give you for stitches sucks WAY MORE than the original cut probably did, and then us going out for steak. Because mmm, steak.

The scar itself is on the meaty side of my right palm, about three inches long, and is like a Y shape with a very long extended tail. You can still see the marks of some of the stitches, in fact. So there's that!

Also I'm covered in chicken pox scars because I liked to pick them off and tell my mother "I got another one!" Those are just all over. My chest, my forehead, my arms, etc.