San Pedro Mártir

The first time I ever needed stitches, I was a freshman in college. So, at least I had health insurance.

As I was running late to my job at the campus hippie-gourmet cafe, running that is, down the industrial carpeted stairs from my third-floor dorm room wearing Keds, I took flight, gloriously, headfirst into the crossbeam above the second floor landing.

I stopped, dropped, and the back of my head landed with a thunk on the stairs. I stood up. I was shaken, but still determined to make good on my work-study.

Cussing but not concussed, I hoisted myself up by the banister and was impressed by the blood pooling up as I leaned over the railing.

I'm bleeding, I said. My pre-med neighbor studying down in the lounge below loped to my aid and called the campus po'.

They carted my off to Dick's House. I got 8 stitches an inch above my hairline (in the pro-wrestler area) and went home to show the wound to my next door neighbors, the guys who always had beer.

The *second* time I needed stitches after an accident on the way to work....that's not a story I tell on the Internet.