Saturday, July 10, 2010
I didn't start keeping a regular diary until I was in college. Sometimes it seems like my life before that is written out on my body.
My second and third toes on both feet are crooked from my years in ballet.
The middle of my right forearm aches when it's cold and rainy since I broke it in third grade.
The two scars from the man o' war sting I got the first time I went to the beach when I was 12 have faded. For a few months after it happened they were the same color as the man o' war's tentacles.
The long thin scar on my inner thigh just above my knee is from the sleepover I had for my fifteenth birthday. I scratched myself with my fingernail while flailing during a tickle fight. I never knew fingernails could be so dangerous.
Of course, now it's a collection of fine lines from kittens trying to climb up my legs. Words I'd never thought I'd say: 'Could you pick this kitten off my butt before it tries to go any higher?'