Johnny get ready and go ska tonight

Here's an odd meme sort of thing:

Ten Things I've Done that You Probably Haven't

1. I was in hospital when I was three or four -- kindergarten aged, anyway. Six? I'm not sure anymore. And, I mean, hospital. At one point I was rushed into the emergency room of our local hospital: my liver was so swollen it was visibly poking from my abdomen. I remember nothing of this, save the faint, fingers on windows imprint of the mad, wheeled-cot rush. None of the pain, thankfully. I was later transferred to Lexington, and spent at least two weeks there, a bit frightened, mostly because my parents clearly were. I remember two pains from my stay: the wasting, sluggish ache of vomiting constantly with no energy to hold myself up, and the faux-rending pain of a catheter. My dad tells the story of hearing the doctor claim that none of them could figure out what was actually wrong with me. Just two years ago I heard him tell someone else -- he never bothered to mention it to me directly -- that our family doctor said it was Eastern Tick Fever. That sounds about right, as far as I know.
   
   
2. I wrecked my first car, snapping an axle in the ditchline, whirling across the road like a ballerina with greased feet, thumping into a tree, and cascading down a hill. To this day I'm not sure if I went end-over-end, like a thrown knife, or along the car's axis, like the spun cylinder of a revolver. I emerged unharmed, and technically committed a crime when a friend drove by and took me to his house to clean up and call my cousin. We met the police officer on our way back.
   
   
3. I broke my toe by catching the tip on a sleeping bag I'd left out on the floor, and resting my weight onto it, snapping it like a twig, with the same protruding, sharp end -- that came up through the base of my toenail.
   
   
4. On an informal sort of day, with just one try apiece, I outshot a professional gun-maker and marksman, using my right hand. I'm left-handed, and the rifle was an old-fashioned flintlock, with a powder pan on the right. The puff of grey from the flash pan is beautiful, in its own way, with the bellowing stink of sulfur, but I couldn't press that to my face, could I?
   
   
5. I've performed the soft-gentle piano chords of Yes's "Time and a Word" on a vibraphone, and had the sun burst through heavy cloud cover as I begin, just far enough to illuminate me and the shining silver keys as I played. Twice. This was our drum major's favorite, and we were both graduating that year. She wept when she noticed what was happening.
   
   
6. I have been accused of keeping a list of people to kill, and plotting to bring a weapon to school so I could shorten the list. This was based on a crass comment I made that I hardly remember, as three girls on the bus had driven me into hysterics. I hardly remember any of what happened. After talking to the police -- I know most of them personally, though not well -- no action was taken against me, and one of the girls was banned from the bus. She wasn't supposed to be on our bus in the first place.
   
   
7. I wrote a poem about no. six, and called it "Witch Hunt," because I was a heavy-handed bastard in high school, then posted it everywhere I could in the school, to the supporting voices of many. My band director, and a few other teachers, made a point of keeping it up all year. The copy at the front desk was torn down, and the advisor said it could be construed as threatening. It couldn't be.
   
   
8. I realize none of these have come from after high school, but nothing impressive has happened to me -- I haven't really done anything worth mentioning, since. Save no. ten. Anyway. The new principal of my high school took me aside and said I had to change my valedictorian speech (or, something -- we had six val &cs that year, because of confusion about the grading scale; one person had higher grades than me, so I guess, to everyone else ever, I would be a salutatorian). He claimed no one in the gymnasium would understand it. There was nothing to understand, save some imagery; I was tempted to ask why he was allowing them to graduate if that were true. Sick of my high school by this point (see six and seven), I aquiesced, and read a poem that had nothing to do with high school, graduation, or anything. Everyone loved it.
   
   
9. I have failed to learn to dance since my junior prom, despite how much I enjoy it.
   
   
10. I wrote a full-length (though short) novel of my own creation, then used it to fulfill my undergraduate (honors) thesis.