It's not like the chewed-up version of a left ear that my head holds, remnants of a brother who fancied himself the next knife-throwing sensation. It's nothing as ghastly as the tattered shin of my right leg, a lasting tribute to another brother who was keen to chase me into drainage pipes in the dead of summer's night. It's not even as typical as the repeating skin-puckering of brushburns found across my forehead, a recurring love-tap of sorts from my soulmate.
Here we are in happier times.
There's an E in my "whiskey" because it's E'Merican.
Even setting 'falling out of your standard fat-nutted blue truck' aside, there are still a number of times I've landed on my face in life. Being married, for example.
But even that didn't leave a physical mark.
And it sure doesn't explain the odd scar on my nose. It runs dead across the thick meaty center, almost a perfect semi-circle rounding from one nostril to the other. For many years I brushed it off as a strange crease mark, a true cautionary tale against the effects of turning up your nose at things. Or, more like a line of separation; the point from where the tip of my nose was just too fat for my nostrils and bursting to escape. The rebellion of a cute button nose on a damn ridiculous face.
A Cabbage Patch Kid come to life.
Upon further inspection, it turns out this mark across my nose is a scar. And now I want to know what happened. Another knifing incident with Jimmy the Great? Dog bite? Game of Got-Your-Nose gone horribly wrong?
Why don't I remember? Is it an incident I've repressed or was I black-out drunk? When did weed start smelling like fruit? Has the scar been there the whole time? Why has nobody mentioned it? Did politeness ruin my chance of finding out the truth?
ARE THERE OTHER SCARS THAT I DON'T KNOW ABOUT?
Something is rotten. I sense it with my forgetfully scarred nose. There's something going on here and I won't tell me what it is. I know something that I'm keeping myself from knowing. There's a godamn scar on my nose that I must know something about the origin of!
But, alas, I know nothing and I'm not talking.
Even my soulmate is suspiciously silent, although I suspect he holds the proof.
(Woo! High-five for the whiskey joke!)
Booooo (ze).
Nonetheless, there is a scar on my nose that has no story.
I wonder if I was a spy in a former version of self. Somewhere between wasted potential and cancer-stricken. Maybe I was trapped in the evil sub-plot of a second-act nemesis; barely discernable from every other douchebag on the daily grind save for my brief encounter with an angry lead character who takes a swipe at my nose.
Stupid scar.
If Harry Potter was a feeling it would perfectly describe the emotion I am filled with right now.
Do YOU know why you do the things that you do?
Me fucking either.
It's like magic.
