"Feels like my skull's on fire."
A lot of people have asked me, "Wheel," they ask me, since that's what fictional people call me when they're asking me convenient lead-in questions, "I see that despite the fact that you paid hundreds of dollars to register to take the GREs ostensibly in time to apply to that famous academy-by-the-sea, Florida Atlantic University, you ended up forfeiting that fee and not taking the test at all, instead choosing to spend that time lounging in a comfortable hospital corridor across from a man with his jeans sliced down the legs who was demanding painkillers and orange juice, and then you ..."
"Shut UP," I would finally say to them, lightly backhanding across the room like Bing Crosby laying one on his kid.
Still, I have to admit, they have a point.
On Friday night I popped on up to Miami, ostensibly to prepare to take the GRE on the following Saturday, but more realistically to party hearty on the event of sagan_fox's birthday. Various people of varying degrees of Judaicness were met and intoxicated with all due joy, and someone, it was noted, had brought a bottle of Bacardi 151, gliding like an amber shark with a flameguard amidst the twinkling jolly liqueurs and libations that graced the table.
And at some point in the night after a few Black Unicorns and Sloe Comfortable Screws had been imbibed, someone - and at this point naming names would be a silly and pointless exercise - brought out matches.
You're all of drinking age (or at least close enough that no one's going to argue), my Children of the Revolution, so I'm sure you're all reasonably familiar with the trick of setting Bacardi 151 on fire. It flickers and dances, soft and blue, almost hypnotic, and it's easily puffed out, providing a delicious piping-hot shot of rum.
Unless, of course, your shot spills wide, perhaps due to the flared nature of the glass, and catches your shirt and hair on fire.
Now, obviously, it wasn't SO bad, or I wouldn't be sitting here typing about it with all this jollity and frivolity. I had fortuitously poured a glass of Sprite (the preferred soft drink for putting out one's flaming face) which, dumped on me, stopped my hair from burning, and despite the fact that my collar was torching merrily, my shirt (a lovely lime green Apple number that botanicasbrain gave me) didn't even char. It's still pristine, if a bit soggy.
The rest of me, however ...
Bear in mind, these pictures would've looked a lot cooler if I'd thought to use my iSight to get them the first day I got back and felt up to moving my head much.
That's my handsome mug. You can just see the burn at the edge of my nose, which was exceptionally painful and crusty, and the one on my lip, which caused me considerable worry because it made my lip alternately exquisitely painful and terribly numb.
Here's my cheek. This looked a lot better before the scab peeled, because the burn was in the precise shape of a heart. You can still make it out if you squint.
Now for the best part:
This here's my neck. You can see it was kind of a sandwich burn, under the chin and at the base of the throat with nothing really scorched in the middle, because I had my head down beating out the flames. They were pretty hot, I remember. They dried out my eyes so much that it looked like I'd just gotten back from a Cheech and Chong film fest.
This burn hurts. It's crackly, it sticks to itself and to my hair, it oozes, it slicks, it leaves crispy bits.
It's not much fun at all.
Here's a slightly shinier picture.
Yeah. You like that? See that handsome white bit in the middle? That's a subdermal blister. It feels squooshy.
Fortunately, constant application of Neosporin and lots of non-flaming liquid to drink, along with my mutagenic healing factor, has made the recovery process simple. I've been merrily peeling away bits of old skin and brushing the delicate pink skin underneath with protective unguents. Frankly, I think everyone will do this eventually. It's a marvelous way of ridding the skin of impurities. I can see the ads featuring the Max Factor home facial pyroclasm kit now.
And I would like to take this time to point out that the girl I adore, the sublime Miz the_crowchan, spent the entire night away from the party with me, curled up on the ER bed next to me and helping me keep moist towels on my crackling, smoking face. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
"Shut UP," I would finally say to them, lightly backhanding across the room like Bing Crosby laying one on his kid.
Still, I have to admit, they have a point.
On Friday night I popped on up to Miami, ostensibly to prepare to take the GRE on the following Saturday, but more realistically to party hearty on the event of sagan_fox's birthday. Various people of varying degrees of Judaicness were met and intoxicated with all due joy, and someone, it was noted, had brought a bottle of Bacardi 151, gliding like an amber shark with a flameguard amidst the twinkling jolly liqueurs and libations that graced the table.
And at some point in the night after a few Black Unicorns and Sloe Comfortable Screws had been imbibed, someone - and at this point naming names would be a silly and pointless exercise - brought out matches.
You're all of drinking age (or at least close enough that no one's going to argue), my Children of the Revolution, so I'm sure you're all reasonably familiar with the trick of setting Bacardi 151 on fire. It flickers and dances, soft and blue, almost hypnotic, and it's easily puffed out, providing a delicious piping-hot shot of rum.
Unless, of course, your shot spills wide, perhaps due to the flared nature of the glass, and catches your shirt and hair on fire.
Now, obviously, it wasn't SO bad, or I wouldn't be sitting here typing about it with all this jollity and frivolity. I had fortuitously poured a glass of Sprite (the preferred soft drink for putting out one's flaming face) which, dumped on me, stopped my hair from burning, and despite the fact that my collar was torching merrily, my shirt (a lovely lime green Apple number that botanicasbrain gave me) didn't even char. It's still pristine, if a bit soggy.
The rest of me, however ...
Bear in mind, these pictures would've looked a lot cooler if I'd thought to use my iSight to get them the first day I got back and felt up to moving my head much.
That's my handsome mug. You can just see the burn at the edge of my nose, which was exceptionally painful and crusty, and the one on my lip, which caused me considerable worry because it made my lip alternately exquisitely painful and terribly numb.
Here's my cheek. This looked a lot better before the scab peeled, because the burn was in the precise shape of a heart. You can still make it out if you squint.
Now for the best part:
This here's my neck. You can see it was kind of a sandwich burn, under the chin and at the base of the throat with nothing really scorched in the middle, because I had my head down beating out the flames. They were pretty hot, I remember. They dried out my eyes so much that it looked like I'd just gotten back from a Cheech and Chong film fest.
This burn hurts. It's crackly, it sticks to itself and to my hair, it oozes, it slicks, it leaves crispy bits.
It's not much fun at all.
Here's a slightly shinier picture.
Yeah. You like that? See that handsome white bit in the middle? That's a subdermal blister. It feels squooshy.
Fortunately, constant application of Neosporin and lots of non-flaming liquid to drink, along with my mutagenic healing factor, has made the recovery process simple. I've been merrily peeling away bits of old skin and brushing the delicate pink skin underneath with protective unguents. Frankly, I think everyone will do this eventually. It's a marvelous way of ridding the skin of impurities. I can see the ads featuring the Max Factor home facial pyroclasm kit now.
And I would like to take this time to point out that the girl I adore, the sublime Miz the_crowchan, spent the entire night away from the party with me, curled up on the ER bed next to me and helping me keep moist towels on my crackling, smoking face. If that's not love, I don't know what is.