Tell you more about me? Well...
I hate ladybugs. I love God.
Let's talk about the former.
When I was 15, I broke my arm. I was walking down the hall at school on Black-n-Gold day and tripped down the stairs. Like a ninja, I should have tucked and rolled, but I stuck out my arms and tried to brace. My forearm snapped. "Snapped" as in my right hand was now taking up residence at my shoulder - when my arm was extended.
Good news? No blood or pain.
Bad news? My black and gold houndstooth pants were ripped at the knee.
Worst news? I was wearing black and gold houndstooth pants.
The vice-principal rushed me to the office where they could administer first aid. This consisted of a rolled up Sports Illustrated attached to my arm with rubber bands. Of course, they couldn't execute that master medical plan with me wearing my jacket. So they moved to cut it off. Except this was no ordinary coat. It was a vintage 1991 brown weathered leather jacket that brought all the boys to the yard. So no. We were not cutting it off. I simply reached over, moved my right hand back to where it was before the break, and slipped off the treasure.
My mother arrived promptly and thought she was well suited to drive me to the emergency room (40 minutes away). This choice was informed by her immense love for me and her immense confidence in our green Chevy Chevelle.
Upon arrival at the hospital, I was bippity boppity booped into a backless gown and left in an adjustable bed in the middle of the ER hallway. After 45 minutes of waiting for an X-ray, the alarm sounded. Not fire, not security, not even a clock. It was a chemical spill practice drill required of the facility every year. This prolonged my awkward center stageness for another hour.
A surgical reset of my radius and ulna. A cast that reached from thumb to shoulder. No writing legibly for 15 weeks. An orthopedic surgeon who admitted to being a few centimeters off in the previously mentioned reset.
And the worst was yet to come.
The ladybugs were coming.