You know what I’ve discovered about myself over the past few years? I am a clumsy person. Well clumsy and always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those two things combined are never a good thing.

Case in point:

Once at my cousin’s house, a whole cousin parade was heading out the back door to the pool in the backyard. Somehow at exactly the same time I tripped forward, the door spring snapped and corner of said door jammed itself in to the muscle in my foot. I still have a nasty scar. I’ll show it to you some time.

When I was just a youngin’, six or seven years old, I was in my basement with a friend from school (sidenote: this “friend” is also the girl who the following year challenged me to a schoolyard fight for the sole reason that I had never been in one. She kicked my pitiful ass in front of my entire second grade class. But then I beat her in the mile run and shuttle run in gym class. Twenty years later, I still hold the record at my elementary school. Take that bitch.) Anyway, me and this friend were in my basement. She thought it would be “funny” to lock us in this creepy sideroom with a glass door. So not funny. Because no one could hear us down there to let us out. After twenty minutes of fruitless screaming I finally punched through the glass panes and set us free. My father rushed me and my bloody hand to the doctor’s where I REFUSED to get stitches. Let me show you that scar too.

Last year, you may all remember how I merely sat on my friend Skip’s motorcycle, tapped the hot pipe, and melted off half my leg? Oh yeah. I remember that. Because IT JUST FRIGGIN HEALED. That’s my cool scar. “Oh how’d you get that?” “Burnt myself on a motorcycle pipe.”*

* Yeah if they only knew it was because I had had one too many glasses of Pinot Grigio and tried to hop on Skip’s stationary bike in a mini-skirt. I’m an asshole.

So that brings us to my latest injury.

In an attempt to clear my head after finishing up about a gazillion projects, I spontaneously took last week off from work and hopped a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. Minutes after checking in to my hotel, I decided I just wanted to take a drive around the island. On a moped. Because it would be fun. And awesome.

I walked over to the rental place, they gave me literally a 30 second lesson on how to drive the thing (they were of no help and the only reason I knew how to start the god damn thing is because sometimes Hooker lets me start his motorcycle.)

So I hopped on the thing and took off and surprisingly to me, I was actually pretty friggin good at driving it. I took my time, visited some old haunts and made my way halfway around the island.

Here’s the thing about these mopeds: they only go 30 mph, which for the most part is fine. But there is a stretch of road between Oaks Bluff and Edgartown where the speed limit goes up to 40.

And here’s where clumsy leaves the picture and the “being in the wrong place at the wrong time” part comes in.

As I followed the road from a 25 mph zone into a 40 mph zone I noticed the cars behind me trying to get past me, so I did what any good driver would do and scooted over to the side of the road. Except when the car got close, it pushed me even FURTHER to the side of the road where I would have been able to continue driving just fine except I’m on an island. A beachy island. Covered in SAND.

The car pushed me over, the tires hit the sand, the moped hit a median, and I went flying off the moped and over the median.

I was literally launched in the air, over a patch of grass and onto the paved bikepath where I slip ‘n’ slided on my bare arm skin for a good 10 feet.

Some woman got out of her car and helped me and the moped up. After the initial shock of it all, I hopped back on, drove back to the hotel, showered and changed and finished out my rental time scooting around Vineyard Haven.

Because it wasn’t until the next day that the wounds turned into burnt chicken skin and I realized “OH HEY. THAT HURT.”

The best part was on Saturday, three days after this incident, I had to shoot a wedding. On a hot day. In long sleeves … because can you imagine THIS coming at you on your wedding day?

SAY CHEESE!!!!!

I spared you and posted a picture of the wounds that I took last night rather than last week. Because last week it was not pretty. In fact, I almost passed out while cleaning my wounds on Saturday. I’m not kidding.

Oh and don’t tell my mom any of this. DAD. I’m looking at you. Somehow I was able to hide my wounds the two days I was around her. I’m trying to avoid that look of disappointment that only a mother knows how to give.

And as for the wedding, despite my Frankenarms, the pictures came out great.