My Head, The Shield

Evidently the last line of defense that I employ (after negotiation, dodging and weaving, and running away) is to take it in the head.

I spent last Monday night in the Emergency Room of the local hospital (which just goes to show what happens when you get cocky), and ended up getting my 23rd through 30th stitch underneath my right eye. Now you may think that this makes me look badass and tough, and you may be right, but that is beside the point. The point is that all 30 of these stitches occurred within a 7 1/4" diameter, that being my hat size and ergo, my head size.

Does my head emit some sort of subsonic signal that just screams to the world "C'mon! Give me your best shot you pantywaist!"? And if so, how do I turn that off (or better yet, turn it into "C'mon! You know you want me!")?

Updates, 7/22/05: I went in today to get my stitches removed, and I have a feeling that I would have been better off taking them out myself. The first nurse that looked at me had hands that shook like an epileptic at a Laser Floyd show (I'm going to hell for that one), and she only managed to get out 5 of the stitches before calling in her counterpart, big Doug, because she couldn't see the stitches.

Now big Doug had surprisingly tender hands for such a large human being. Unfortunately, he didn't have eyesight any better than Twitchy McShakes, my first nurse. When I got home, I went into my bathroom, looked in the mirror and actually saw parts of the thread that they had left in my face. Fortunately, I also have surprisingly tender hands for such a large person (larger than life, perhaps), and I managed to get the rest of the stitches out with some tweezers and a small pair of scissors. Fun times, let me tell you.