Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Mum: What happened to your hands? Jacki: I tripped over a dog today.

Let's add "Longueville" to the list of people, things, animals or places that are trying to kill me.
That's right, Longueville. I think it fits in nicely, right between "History Teachers" and "Every Type Of Spider On The Planet". I know some people might think it's a little unfair that I have an entire suburb after me, in addition to the spiders and the history teachers, my sister, bus drivers, the magpies in the park and all serial killers currently incarcerated at Goulburn Correctional Centre, but it's not such a big deal.
I learnt to deal with it a long time ago - I think right around the time I was awarded 'Most Likely To Be Killed By Ivan Milat' by my classmates at the year 10 formal.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, right.
Yeah, Longueville is trying to kill me. I know it sounds crazy; that's probably because it is crazy. But it's also true. It's crazy AND true. Kind of like me.
Haha. Get it? Because my last name is Trew. And I'm totally insane! Ahahaha!
Ok, but seriously. It seems like every time I leave my house but stay in the vicinity of Longueville, something bad happens to me. But not just regular bad - ridiculous bad. Absurd bad. Impossible bad. And also, admitedly, hilarious bad.
How about my infamous nighttime-running-slash-fence-jumping incident which resulted in a trip to the ER, 7 stitches and a scar which officially ended my arm-modeling career for life.
There's the time I was brutally attacked by band of middle-aged women and their teacup poodles. Or the story about how I was almost permentantly maimed by an exploding mailbox while delivering the North Shore Times on Kenneth Street. And lets not forget how I ended up as the Lane Cove Over 40 Soccer Team's afternoon entertainment after accidentally walking over an ants nest barefoot.
Well now I can add another incident to the list: Today on my afternoon walk (the single 40 minutes of freedom I have in a day otherwise filled with college assessments and curtain sewing), I tripped over a dog on the footpath and took all the skin off my knuckles.
There are two things that seriously concern me about this:
1) If I think that skinned knuckles hurt now, I don't even want to know what it's going to feel like when the wounds scab and I'm unable to straighten my fingers. And
2) Who trips over a dog?!

What is with me? I swear, I have the worst luck ever. I am like the guy in that movie Just My Luck. You know, all this bad shit keeps happening to him until Lindsay Lohan's good fortune mechanism is transfered into his body after he makes out with her at a masquerade ball?
Is that my destiny?
Is that the only solution?
I have to make out with Lindsay Lohan or forever suffer the wrath of Longueville? In all honestly, I think I'd rather take the wrath. At least it gives my family a laugh:

Mum: What happened to your hands?
Jacki: I tripped over a dog today.
Mum: Sigh. I think we need to stop letting you out of the house.

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