>As I have stated before, I am not a plushie, despite my prolific use of stuffed animals to as underwear models. I’m not a furry, either. (A furry is a person who dresses up in an animal costume and then has sex with other people dressed in animal costumes.) I find that disturbing. No, instead, I freely admit to having an unnatural interest in bruises and scars.

Bruises and scars don’t actually turn me on, but I do find them totally fascinating. I have the most interest in my own scars and bruises. Perhaps that makes me bizarrely narcissistic or self-involved, but it is true. All of this came to mind earlier yesterday evening when I slammed my elbow into my closet door on accident. It hurt like fuck, and as tears sprung to my eyes and I shouted, “Shit shit shit,” over and over again, the little voice in the back of my head reminded me that I should get a very nice bruise out of it at least.

What’s cool about bruises is that they magically turn different colors. You just never know what to expect. One day it’s reddish, then purple, then bluish, then faded yellow, then brown. Fun, right? Unless someone is beating you, bruises are interesting. (Disclaimer so that I am not misunderstood: I do not condone violence against others.)

Scars, on the other hand, rock on in the way that wrinkles do: if you have a scar, you’ve had a life experience that you survived. Scars should be worn as a badge of pride: something happened to me and I overcame it. I won! When I had my breast reduction surgery, I was warned that there could be scars where the incisions were made. No problem, I thought – I deserve them! Someone chopped my tits up, I damn well better have something to show for it (other than, of course, smaller breasts). I was told to put vitamin E oil on any area that could scar. Now, I was raised to be a good girl and to do what authority figures told me to do, and so I went out and bought vitamin E oil. I put some on the first time, and then it hit: what the fuck was I thinking? I wanted scars and here I was sabotaging myself so that I would heal nicely and be a good model he could photograph and show other women. NO! I would not be a part of such a diabolical plan! I put the vitamin E oil away forever. (Even though that shit is expensive - despite my best effort to find the cheapest kind possible, it was still over $5 – I held true to myself and never used it again.)

For a few months, much to the horror of my husband, I was proud to show off my scars. “Wanna see my scars?” I’d ask unsuspecting friends and acquaintances. Before my husband could leap in front of me, I’d left up my shirt and the bottom of my bra to show off my scars. (For the record, I did not show off my boobs. I am not that kind of exhibitionist!) Sadly, though, my innate excellent healing ability kicked in. Even though I used that stupid vitamin E oil only once, the damn things healed over like a normal person’s dream. Every time I get a medical check up, the doctor marvels over my healing. What a waste!

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