I was rearranging my closet the other night, when I stood up suddenly and slammed my cheekbone and eye into the corner of a newly positioned shelving unit. As with all startling injuries, I yelled something unintelligible, crashed to the floor, and clutched the injured part frantically. If I hadn’t been in such excruciating pain, I would have been able to laugh at the comical nature of the accident. However, I was too busy trying to make certain my eye was still attached to my head.
The pain finally subsided enough for me to crawl out of the closet, at which point I started crying and giggling simultaneously. The swelling began immediately, and my friend, who had witnessed this whole event, started laughing at my deformed, teary face. He brought me a bag of ice and examined the injury, causing me to cry harder as he commented on the swelling, the cut, and the bruising. However, the harder I cried, the harder I also laughed, and soon I was in maniacal hysterics. And that, my friends, is the beauty of my medication.
It is now two days later, and although the bruising and swelling is virtually unnoticeable, the cut is still an angry red mark, and my coworkers have asked more than once if I “tripped on a rake” or “bumped into a door”. And each time they ask, I tell them really, I completely deserved it, and we’ll just tell the children that I fell down the stairs.