I hope it scars.

So, I'm a slightly weird child. If you haven't gathered that by now, I don't know what you've been smoking.

I was working last night in the drive thru. As per usual. We had run out of ice coffee, so I was brewing some more so we wouldn't run out. (logical)

While I was pouring the ice coffee into the dispenser, I managed to fantastically burn the inside of my arm with the very hot outside of the coffeepot.

Yeah, it hurt. Proud I didn't drop it (because removing my arm skin from hot metal would be the logical thing instead of finishing pouring out the coffee and then putting the pot down) and also proud I maintained the composure to take the order the person at the menu was giving me. (read: not cussing my head off so I could listen to them)

It really really hurt.

Okay, it didn't really hurt. It was distracting, but not debilitating. I've had worse burns at work. (read: scar on my other arm from french fry basket attacking me)

Anyway, talking to coworker in the drive thru, and she was like, well, it doesn't look too bad.

And I'm like, no, it doesn't. Darn. I hope it scars.

I want it to scar.

It seems somehow invalidating if I went through all that pain and trial of getting burnt in the first place, and I got through it, I don't get a scar.

I don't know why. Scars are cool. Scars tell stories. Scars and beautiful and wonderful and human. They say, yeah, I got hurt. Yeah, I went through this. But look. It's healed. There's just this little mark to remind me how strong I am.

I have lots of scars. Little things, on my hands, my arm, my legs, my back. I got them just through living my life and doing things and being klutzy and things. The big ones have stories. The little ones are just there. They're part of what makes me me.

So, yeah. Hot metal is dangerous. Pain sucks, but somehow I still don't mind having a minor burn. It'll get better. I might even get a scar. (fingers crossed)

Luff ya.

Bonus: Fun little fact: a few hours after I got off work last night, one of my friends invited me to come to a bonfire they were having. Which meant I spent a good couple hours sitting around a firepit, working very hard to keep our miserable little fire alive, right after getting my arm burnt on a coffeepot. I'm pretty much like inhaling smoke and putting my face really close to the fire to try and give it some oxygen (mine and others) and trying to get sticks to catch so they'll burn instead of smolder (involving my arm holding small sticks close to flames) and I just kinda thought it was almost an out of the frying pan into the fire experience. Almost literally. I just like fire.

Kids, don't play with fire. Disclaimer.

Okay, this is really the end. Luff ya'll.