Time To Liquor Your Wounds

(I just got into a pretty bad car crash. I refuse medical assistance because, well, that’s expensive. I call my boyfriend to help me, and he brings his buddy who always brags about being an ex-Marine medic. In my shock, I keep insisting we go to the home of a friend whose cats I am taking care of, saying that we can’t let them starve. We get there. I’m bleeding everywhere, my face is swelling, and my hand is turning blue for some reason.)

Boyfriend: “I’ll feed the cats. You just sit down. Wait. You need ice. I’ll get ice!”

Buddy: “You need to clean out these cuts. Does your friend have rubbing alcohol?”

Me: “I don’t know. She’s got three bathrooms in this place. Look around.”

(They run around like headless chickens for a minute.)

Buddy: “I don’t see any.”

Me: “There is a store up the road.”

(He disappears and comes back five minutes later, holding a vodka bottle.)

Buddy: “They didn’t have rubbing alcohol. I got this!”

Me: “Where did you go?”

Buddy: “The gas station.”

Me: “And you didn’t notice the drug store on the other corner?! Give me that.” *I take a big swig straight from the bottle* “It will do, but I’m never calling you for rescue again.”

Boyfriend: “What about me?”

Me: “Are the cats fed?”

Boyfriend: “Yes.”

Me: “I’ll call you; just don’t bring him with.”

(And yes, I did clean out my wounds with vodka, because the buddy didn’t want to go out again, and my boyfriend was afraid I would get up the in-shock energy to kill said buddy if we were left alone together. Good times.)