Let's see... the scar will probably be around forever, and people will most likely ask me how I got it... so I may as well start practicing telling the dumbass story to a bunch of strangers on the web, as to spare myself embarassment later.
When I'm bored, I usually turn up some music, and let my imagination loose. Which basically means, I jump around my room like a moron completely immersed in my mind. That particular day, I was severely ticked off at my high school principal, for a reason which is a story in itself... let's just say he hit a nerve, and kept on drilling for a week or so.
So, in my mind, I'm beating the hell out of him, when suddenly I feel a jar - not something cranberries are kept in, but like a small tremor. I realize that the vibration came from my arm, so I look down - and see my hand by the dresser. With a half-inch cut right on my knuckle. The dresser has a little blood on it. For some reason, it's not hurting, so I take a closer look.
When I saw my own bone, white as a ghost, with skin and muscle and tendons surrounding it, I somewhat panicked. What the hell do I do? I have a fucking cut to the bone, and my parents aren't home. I debated calling 911, deciding to spare them the entertainment of my story. The cut still didn't hurt.
I remembered that a friend of mine's mom was a nurse, or a vet, or something. I hopped on my bike, hoping the pain wouldn't come through while a semi was driving behind me, and rode down to his house. About an eighth of a mile. Of course, he's not home... so I ride back up to my next door neighbor. She's not home either. Panic, panic, panic. Finally, I decide to try the last house in the neighborhood with a car in the garage - Melissa's house. Even though we live practically next door, we never exchanged a word. I knock on the door, and a nice lady (her mom?) answers.
"Hi... I'm your neighbor, I live right over there... and I kind of hurt my hand..." and I'm smiling while I say all this, because there is still no pain, and I feel like an idiot. She gasps, gets her husband, who just happens to be a pharmacist. My luckiest day. He looks over my hand, and puts a bandage on it. Tells me I probably won't need stitches, and I go home.
Tada, the end. What, did you expect that it would get infected and I'd die?