Cold cocked

Some of you have been asking me if I was in a knife fight or a bar room brawl. The answer: that would be way cooler than the lame story of how I really got a bloody gash on the upper bridge of my nose.

Yesterday I opened my mailbox to find a gas bill that took no prisoners. Immediately, I began to think of any and all ways to keep this tragedy from happening again. Presto! I scurried, which I do quite well, to the furnace to change its dirty, dirty filter. As I lifted the latch to the furnace's innards, the latch above the latch I was opening (yes, I realize that's a lot of latches) didn't like me messing with its downstairs neighbour. It swung down in violet fashion crashing down on my distinguished proboscis.

Yes, I did see stars. Also: comets, asteroids and various geo-synchronized satellites. After all, this was a heavy and a jealous latch.

After returning to planet Earth, I was impressed with my OWN self that I managed not to swear just then. No, instead I waited a whole three minutes to do that in front of my beautiful wife, who exclaimed/questioned as I came to the top of the stairs, "Oh my gosh! What happened to your face?" Apparently, I was profusely bleeding from a cut, which I had failed to notice earlier. I looked in the bathroom mirror, only to see Stephen King's Carrie staring back at me. Okay, my nose wasn't as bad as being drenched in the unholy blood of beasts, but seeing it marred and mussed did cause me to utter forth an unholy expletive. For which I am ashamed. And I promise it will never happen again.