There aren’t many worse ways to be woken up then to be cold-clocked in the eye from a dead sleep.
Except for this: cold-clocking yourself in the eye.
I can’t recount in detail the events leading up to this catastrophic event (since I was sleeping), but I do know the aftermath. Like a bad Stephen King storyline, my hands are apparently out to kill me. Jolted awake by a fist of fury, I was stunned to find I was the culprit.
I immediately checked my eye to assess the damage, only to notice the mark of the beast – a thumbnail gash. I managed to not only punch myself, but slice myself open as well (slice is an exaggeration, but hey, it’s my blog). Stumbling back to bed, I quickly ransacked my slumber ridden brain for ideas on how to avoid repeating this debacle. The hands must be stopped.
Over-estimating my ability to think with only half my synapses firing, I had the brilliant idea to sleep on my hands (yes, I graduated college).
I probably don’t need to tell you this was a bad idea. Not to mention uncomfortable. Hell bent on not letting my hands get the best of me, I sacrificed a good amount of sleep focusing on their demise.
The most painful part of this story didn’t have anything to do with the swollen eye, punctured skin or numb hands, but everything to do with my dignity. Concealer can cover up a lot of things, but it can’t cover up whatthehelliswrongwithyoutrish?
Long, unnecessary story short – no, I didn’t walk into a door.