Franken-Snarky

As many of you know, probably because I ranted and raved about the evils of high-velocity soccer balls, I broke my forearm rather fantastically in April, had it reset and then fall out of alignment over the next four weeks, and then had to have it surgically re-broken, wherein they added (a) a piece 'o my hip bone and (b) a lovely metal plate with accompanying screws. But did you all know that I was keeping photographic evidence of my travails? I bet not! A camera phone in the hands of a formerly pre-med, currently under the influence of Oxycontin individual is a beauteous thing.















One week after surgery. I about pissed myself when he took the temporary cast off. "Just a little scar," he said. Bull honkey - it looks like my forearm got raised from the dead in an altogether arcane fashion.















Now, we're at three weeks post-surgery. The scar is starting to looks less like I'm an undead zombie and more like I just tried to off myself with a razor blade. My favorite part is the waffling of the skin due to my water-proof cast. It gives my arm a certain International House of Scabby Waffles allure.















And here we are at present day scarring. The scar looks positively radiant next to the street atlas my veins form under fluorescent lighting. I've started to look at the bright side of the scar looking vaguely suicidal - I can use it to weed through the dating pool. If they seem to dig my scar without explanation, well, I can run away quickly.