When we just started dating, my husband told me how he met his best friend. 

He and his best friend were in the same class, but they were far from friends. Not only that, but [Friend] was the class bully and [Husband] was the meek victim.

[Husband] does not remember everything anymore, but he said that [Friend] was once again annoying him by poking his back. He had done this for months, so something finally snapped in [Husband]. He got up, turned around, grabbed [Friend], and tossed him over two rows of tables. He then jumped after [Friend] and started punching him. According to [Husband], adrenaline and rage combined are one h*** of a drug.

The teachers were aware of the bully situation, but since [Friend] made sure no one was looking, there was no proof of it. So, to the outside, it looked as if [Husband] had gone mad for no reason!

The teacher stormed at the two, pulled them apart, and yelled:

Teacher: “Enough! And now you two are friends!”

[Husband] calmed down and [Friend] nodded. [Friend] never bullied anyone again, and they indeed became friends. [Friend] eventually became my husband’s best man at our wedding. [Friend] told me he needed someone to “punch some sense into him” and was thankful [Husband] was the one to do it.

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Abuse

My mother told me this story. She’s watching two of my younger brothers as they’re playing in the front yard. [Brother #1], who is around six years old, spies a struggling inchworm on the driveway. My mom notices him crouching down to look at it and goes to join him. The poor thing doesn’t look so good.

Brother #1: *Clearly distressed* “Is… Is he gonna be okay?”

Mom: “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Brother #1: “Okay. If you say so.”

Then, [Brother #2], who is about three years old, comes over to see what the fuss is about. He spots the inchworm and, to [Brother #1] and Mom’s horror, lifts his foot.

Brother #2: *Stomping on the inchworm* “DIE! DIE! DIE!”

It’s been more than ten years since this incident, and their relationship still has the exact same dynamic, though our mother did manage to train most of [Brother #2]’s destructive behavior out of him.

I’m an equestrian events photographer. My state doesn’t really have horse races, but we have a number of fairly large jumping competitions. (For those who speak Equinese, we have hunter/jumper derbies and grand prix.) Due to the nature of the sport, one of the first things a successful equestrian learns is how to land safely because falling off or being thrown is more or less inevitable. We keep photographing through a fall because they’re our best sellers: families buy them to embarrass the rider, and trainers buy them to show their rider exactly what went wrong that caused the fall. Fortunately, nine times out of ten, the only injury sustained is bruised pride.

I’m at a show doing my thing as usual when a rider gets thrown going over a jump. (It was a hunter class, so I believe it was at most a three-foot height.) I get the entire fall on camera, and I note that the rider cracked her head on the standard — translation: the tall frame of the jump — as she fell, striking the back of her helmet near where the base of the skull meets the neck.

EMTs quickly check her out and move her out of the ring. She’s really wobbly, so I offer her my camping chair. Both the rider and the EMTs thank me and sit her down while I move to keep shooting.

I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but I hear snippets of the conversation between the rider and the EMTs, which I would have politely ignored had I not heard the rider say the words:

Rider: “No, I didn’t hit my head.”

I whip my head around to face her.

Me: “Yes, you did.”

Rider: *Surprised* “I did?”

EMT #1: *Concerned* “She did?”

Me: “You absolutely did. I have pictures.”

EMT #2: *Very interested* “You got pictures of the fall? I’d love to see those if I could.”

I scroll back through my camera reel.

Me: “One hundred percent. Just let me find them real quick.” 

For that one time out of ten where injuries worse than ego are sustained, on-site EMTs will often ask my coworkers and me if we got pictures of the accident so they can see exactly what happened. Sometimes a rider will have a particularly painful injury that blocks out another, less severe injury that still needs treatment, or sometimes a rider will hit their head really, really hard, and they need to know exactly where.

Fortunately, my boss is freaking awesome and will gladly provide any pictures needed for medical reasons free of charge, so I make a note of the file numbers in case the rider or her doctor end up needing them later.

[EMT #2] looks at the pictures and gets a grim expression.

EMT #2: *To [Rider]* “Yeah, you’re going to the hospital for an X-ray right now.” *To me* “Thank you so much for these, and for saying something.”

Me: “No problem. If you need the pictures, just email my boss and she’ll give them to you.” 

I hand him a business card.

EMT #2: “Thank you. We might.”

The EMTs got the rider loaded up in a golf cart and took her back to the main building, where I surmise she was eventually put in an ambulance and taken to the hospital.

I texted my boss about the situation and the possibility that she might need to pull some files for medical; she thanked me for the heads-up and praised me for helping out.

The next day, [EMT #2] found me again and told me that, while he couldn’t disclose details for legal reasons, the rider had gotten her bells rung really good but hadn’t suffered any permanent damage. Wear your helmets, folks!

Every year, the church down the street from my house has a small fair involving a lobster meal, craft tents, and a flea market. I attend with my mother and sister, and one year, my sister brings a friend. 

The four of us get our meals and find an open spot on the lawn to eat. My mother and sister finish well before us, so they go to see what’s for sale. [Friend] and I chat between ourselves as we finish our own food and drink, and she winds up pulling the head off her lobster entirely. A few minutes later. I tease her about something, and she immediately reaches for the lobster head.

Me: “Ohhh, no. No!”

She throws it at me, and I kick my foot up to block it. Not only do I block successfully, but somehow, I bring my foot up at the perfect momentum and angle, launching the lobster head up and over me to land in the grass behind my back. 

We’re both stunned, and then we start loudly shouting and cheering at how absolutely awesome it was. 

Friend: “Let me throw it at you again!”

Me: “NO!”

I’m a teacher. An eighth grader approaches me in the cafeteria.

Eighth Grader: “Mr. [My Name], do I really have to go to lunch detention all week?”

Me: “Well, you’ve been very unkind to your classmates recently. If I were to shorten this, I’d have to be sure that you wouldn’t—”

At that moment, a younger student trips, sprawls face-first on the floor, and spills her lunch everywhere.

[Eighth Grader] points and laughs uproariously.

Me: “See you in detention.”