You see, on the Fourth, I was in the wrong place and took a rogue roman candle to the thighs. It hit my right leg and bounced to my left and danced around in my dress before dying out. When it happened, I thought of my dress. That cute dress I had just gotten. It had a huge hole right in the middle. It wasn't until I was told to go in the house and make sure my legs were okay that I actually felt any pain. I was so mad about my dress!
To make a gross story safe for your reading pleasure, many days with my skirt hiked up to my pickachu and ice packs on my thighs. We are in the tightening, scabbing stage, so although it's uncomfortable, it isn't messy with lotions and creams.
I have no moral to this story. Well, yes, if you are going to light fireworks, be safe with them.
This leads me to 12:30 am July 5th...with ice packs on my lap our new backyard neighbor was STILL blowing off illegal explosives, and they were loud! I thought I had a slight case of PTSD. Every whizzing sound followed by a pop had me reliving the earlier demise of my thigh skin. I wanted so much to call the cops, but that would mean I would have to rise from my location with my ice and get the phone. That, and the grapevine told me that he was just released from a correctional facility. I'm not messing with that one.
The major works subsided at 12:45 am. Which was nice.
Until 1:28 am, when he sent another one off.
Quiet again.
Until 2:41 am, when he sent yet another one off.
Quiet again.
Until 3:47 am, when yet another friggin shot woke me.
Quiet again.
You'd think I would call the cops at this point. I was so tired. In so much pain, I just fell asleep again.
POW! SHOOOOT! KAPLOOEY!
4:21 am the final shot.
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