I am beginning to think I got whiplash a few weeks ago when Allison and I were hit by that car. The last time I got whiplash was when I was rear-ended by a police officer. But I mean, this isn’t even impressive. The other car didn’t even hit us that hard. I’m just the kind of person things happen to. I don’t know what it is about me, but I tend to get hurt in the most moronic of ways. When I was thirteen, I accidentally stapled my own hand. When I was camping with my family that same year, I broke my toe because I pretended to lock my brother in the RV bathroom and he flung it open when he realized that, no, it actually can’t be locked from the outside, and I was hit with the door and knocked off my feet. I’ve bruised my tailbone twice, once when I sat down where there wasn’t actually a chair and once when I threw myself off of a roof. I have been shot in the head with Alex’s Airsoft gun. I once fell onto a Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse that didn’t even belong to me with the result that I ripped open my entire leg. I received two bloody noses during my short stint as the worst basketball player on our fifth-grade team, both because I wasn’t paying attention. I once fell out of a go-kart that my dad and my brother built and somehow managed to run myself over. I cracked my head open at summer camp. The first time I ever got stung by a bee was because I wedged a large stick into the hive.
I’ve gotten better with age, but for somebody who hates blood and needles and is very, very squeamish, I apparently had no sense of self-preservation at all as a child.