Matter of fact, it will be the much anticipated (by two of you) 100 Things About Me meme.
Mi mi mi...
For everyone else, strap in. Have I got a story for you...
I'm not going to show you a picture of my brother, Joe, because I can't. He works as a correctional officer, and it's probably best that the state where he works continue to believe he's sane.
Okay, technically he is, but do you think someone who cuts off his own finger on purpose has a firm grasp of reality?
Yeah, me neither.
(And since he cut off his finger, he doesn't really have a firm grasp on anything!)
No? Okay then. Where was I?
Ah, yes. My "special" brother.
To start off, I feel a little back story may be in order.
My brother has always been a tough-as-nails kinda guy. When he was twelve, he broke his ankle falling off his friend's roof, and he walked the two miles home on it. You might think he has no perception of pain, but he'll tell you it hurt like a mother. He just didn't want to get in trouble for playing on his friend's roof.
If you knew our parents, you'd understand.
Rules were strictly enforced. If you disregarded them, there was hell to pay. Which meant you either played by the rules (like I did), or you learned early on not to get caught (like somebody else did).
I can't be sure that that was the reason Joe learned to hide his pain so well or not, but I do know I never saw him so much as shed a tear. Not even when he got clocked in the face with a baseball and it broke his eye socket.
The guy is invincible.
When he got out of the army, he developed an affinity for such manly pursuits as hunting and fishing and all that testosterony stuff. He'd camp out for weeks at a time by himself. It was on one of those trips that he badly injured his finger skinning a deer. He packed up his camp and headed into the nearest town to have it stitched up, but they ended up having to operate on it.
He was getting feeling in it again and getting his movement back a few weeks later, but he told his doctor that despite the pain meds they prescribed, it wouldn't stop hurting. The doctor told him it was all in his head, that it wasn't unusual to feel pain after an operation, and to give it time.
He figured he would take matters into his own hands. Literally.
Now, my brother may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he did plan ahead. Though I will not incriminate his accomplice, I will say that we have a close family member who is in the medical field and was able to accommodate his request for a local anesthetic. I do not blame this individual in any way. Whether she got it for him or not, she knew it would not dissuade him from his course of action.
Come hell or high water, that finger was coming off.
My brother said he had a "half rack of beer" before the deed. I don't drink, so I'm not up on all the lingo the kids are using these days, so I don't know what a rack is.
I mean, I know what a rack is...
I just don't know how it pertains to quantities of beer.
Three? Six? Thirty-six?
Still not enough for me, thank you. When contemplating the removal of my digits, I like to believe I would be lying in a comfortable hospital bed, completely oblivious to the world and deep in dreamland.
Failing that, and forced to do the deed myself, I would probably elect not to be in an altered state of mind. If I have to feel anything, at least let it be quick.
(That's what she said.)
Sorry. Couldn't help myself.
Now, if I had to choose something with which to cut off my finger, it would be my compound miter saw. It's bolted down, so no shifting would occur, it's quick, and just look at these edges!
My brother went a different route.
He decided to forgo the one shot deal and turn his little escapade into his own brand of torture. First, by smashing his bone with a sledgehammer...
then by cutting the whole thing off with a pair of these...
Of all the stupid...
Nope. Not gonna go there. It's his finger. He can cut it off how he wants.
Wanna know the worst part, though?
He doesn't know where it went.
Now aren't you glad you asked?