There's an old saying that if you break your finger on your 26th birthday, it means that you are going to have a really great year. Well, I'm not positive if that's really a saying, but I'm pretty hopeful that it has to be true. Last night was quite an eventful evening for me, one that I won't forget any time soon. It was my 26th birthday, and it was also the night that I broke my very first bone. Allow me to set the stage.
I was loving life at Firefly, the bar that I had chosen for this momentous occasion. (Mind you, I actually have no idea if I was loving life, but I'm pretty sure that with the amazing turn-out of all of my friends--I was having a pretty great time). All was well, until I decided that I needed to use the bathroom. It was at that moment when my birthday easily turned into one of the worst nights of my life. Somewhere in between the chaos of me slipping out of the bathroom door, and the next girl going in--my finger got caught in the space between the hinges of the bathroom door. And that is when the biatch (using the bathroom), slammed the door shut, with my pinky stuck in between.
MOTHER OF GOD. Blood was oozing from my finger, and what I did not yet realize, was that my pinky had actually broken in HALF. Being intoxicated, and not yet realizing the severity of the situation--I tried to go back to the dance floor, and dance. (That is until I realized that I had left a trail of blood on and around the dance floor).
(Lily, BGbabe, Britt, 1/2 of the Berlowi, and Rweissypantz, you guys brought me water, and squeezed my bloody hand-I love you). Soon after, one of my oldest and greatest friends, Matthew Charles Rockoff, who I will love forever, stepped in, and brought me to the hospital. Rockoff was amazing. He held my hand through three shots, and an IV stuck in my arm. He made me laugh, pointing out the bloody sheets that I was sleeping on. Rockoff even brought me McDonalds at four am, but most importantly of all--he took pictures of me in the hospital--and exploited me on facebook for all of the world to see. I look beautiful in these pictures. And by beautiful, I do of course mean, disgusting.
Throughout the course of the night, thanks to Rockoff, I was in pretty good spirits, (that is until he left around six am--and the homeless woman laying in the hospital bed next to me started to scream). This is when the whole situation started to get a little bit scary and a little bit real.
I had 4 needles jabbed into my arms, I was eight stitches deep. I was alone, and my pinky was broken in half.
Needless to say, I did what any self-respecting adult would do. I started to feel sorry for myself. And I cried. The doctor that gave me eight stitches (who literally could not have been older than 27), said to me--" Please don't cry--just think, now you'll always remember your 26th birthday." I think that's a pretty safe bet, and if there is any bright light at the end of this strange and dreary tunnel, it is this: Atleast, I got a really good blog posting outta this, one that was typed without the use of my right pinky.
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