By Sophia Yakumithis
I honestly should’ve been born with a lifetime warranty because of how susceptible to injuries I’ve become. My body has so many things wrong with it at the moment, I don’t even know where to begin.
I’ve been back on campus for about a month now and I’ve already accumulated some pretty brutal injuries. The most ironic part of this is, of course, the fact that we’re so restricted on our whereabouts, proving a lot can happen if you live life on the ~edge~: a code word for “paying no attention to the world around you.”
Within a two-mile radius, I’ve sustained second-degree burns, a fracture, countless bruises and a couple major cuts. As I’m typing this, I currently have a skinless thumb. That’s right: no skin. And it hurts. A lot.
Back pedaling for a second, none of this is new. I’ve lived life in full force since I was a child. It’s not that I’m a careless person, I’ve just always known that I have a high tolerance for pain and a remarkable ability to recover, so I take life as far as possible knowing my body will hold up through whatever happens. That’s not to sound like an opioid addict who’s trying to numb the pain of life — if anything, it’s the exact opposite. I’m trying to take it all in.
This summer witnessed a stress fracture, broken foot and some arm-mangling from the thorns on a rose bush, among other injuries that will probably scar me for life. But upon my arrival to Boston, I sustained a second-degree burn on my forearm within the first 36 hours. And let me tell you, the coils in my oven are totally forgiven because that cinnamon sugar bread was completely worth the pain.
Less than three days later, though, my demons and I were back at it in the kitchen with some banana bread — an old favorite — and my forearm saw a repeat of burnage less than an inch away from its predecessor. Oh, and did I mention those burns developed perfectly on top of the thorn scar? Because who doesn’t want a tic-tac-toe board on their arm for the rest of their life?
The fracture derived from my previously broken foot, which hadn’t fully healed and got hit with a plummeting box while I was moving in. The bruises all over my legs, meanwhile, are just from banging around in my sleep due to an undiagnosed case of restless leg syndrome. Either that, or I’m being haunted by a ghost who’s into BDSM.
The prime injury, though, is today’s: my skinless thumb.
I came home from a morning run and, out of kindness, decided to make apple pancakes for my roommate. Mid-apple dicing, I diced the tip of my thumb. It bled for 20 minutes and then bled through the bandage. I felt like a “Chopped” contestant, although I didn’t stop cooking because there was nothing to get disqualified from nor were $10,000 at stake. Just my dignity.
Like a big girl, I didn’t cry. No — I simply sat in a pool of my own blood and worthlessness on my kitchen floor wearing nothing but spandex shorts, a T-shirt and a shiny badge of shame.
So that’s the past month of my life, for you. I hope you enjoy my misfortunes, because I sure as hell am not. I hope that one day my audience will laugh with me about something funny, perhaps, rather than at me for living my actual life.