My father has the grace of a ballet dancer and the dexterity of a cardiac surgeon. My mother used to sail through the day in impossibly high heels and could create pencil drawings of exquisitely complex precision. I, however, trip on smooth surfaces and have the penmanship of an epileptic physician on crack. They insist that I'm not adopted -- but they also told me that when I became an adult, I could make my own rules. They've lied before, so why should I believe this suspicious biological progeny story?

Depending upon whom you ask, I am either accident-prone because I am preoccupied or because my metaphorical battery is always low. One practical person points out that my loathing of glasses keeps them on my desk instead of on my face where they belong. My theory is that a disorientation gyroscope was mistakenly implanted in my brain when I had the misfortune of being abducted by minimum wage temp aliens.

At the moment, I have an attractive gouge on my forehead, not far from a bump on the side of my head. The first blow was delivered by the nails of my own hand and the second by the opening of my truck's door. (Yes, I can see how big the opening is, but what I really need are whiskers.) I currently carry uncounted bruises and my thumb was somehow gashed yesterday. I say "somehow" as I'm never sure when or how most of the trivial injuries occur. My first clue is often a tiny trail of blood leading to the newest laceration. Occasionally, I will splash blood on a wall or across a floor and will be frantically scrubbing away evidence when caught. My co-workers have unanimously demanded that I produce the results of a hepatitis test.

I often arrive home from work limping, wincing or shambling like the elderly. This is due to my perilous work environment and the associated risks I must continually face: I sit on my butt in front of a computer monitor twelve hours a day. Not many people could manage to sprain an ankle on the way from the desk to the copier, but I have elevated the office mishap to an art form. I am the only one in the firm who has sliced open a palm pulling files. I am the only one who has sustained a paper cut to the eyeball. Envelope-moistening sponge bottles were invented for people like me, as I cannot lick an envelope without slitting the corner of my mouth and developing a nasty infection. The newel post at the foot of the stairs has left its livid signature on various body parts and I swear it sniggers as I stagger away. I approach the coffee maker with some trepidation ever since that scalding incident. Let us not even speak of the electric stapler.

I was once pulled aside by a concerned classmate. "Is there something you'd like to talk about?" she asked. At first, I thought she was one of those test answer pushers I'd heard of and might be offering a sample. She pointed at the bruises on my arms. "Who did this to you?" She was clearly alarmed. I explained that I was gravitationally challenged and assured her I was only victim to myself. She gave me the number of an abuse hotline and made me promise not to put up with rough treatment. I didn't ask whom I should call if I like it rough.

When I was in films (read "direct-to-video"), moving from one mark to the next qualified as stunt work for me, the production crew (Mike, Earl, Earl's bipolar cousin, and Jim Beam) learned to duck when my character was required to handle any potential projectile. One such object was a filled syringe locked onto an unsheathed fourteen gauge needle. No drinking transpired on the set (Earl's living room) that day. Since we (I) had amassed more bloopers (screw-ups with profanity) than actual movie content, we had the brilliantly self-indulgent idea of paring down the blooper footage to the "best" and including it with the movie. But since I am also a potty mouth of some renown, Mike's wife refused to let him edit the piece while the kids were around -- and those fucking kids were always around.

Certain activities are ill-advised for me, like rock-climbing, skateboarding, or getting out of bed. I went dancing once -- my partner wore boots, but, unfortunately, they weren't fully armor-plated. What began as a cute lesson in the Texas two-step ended with uncomfortable swelling and my apologetic covering of a hefty bar tab. Incidentally, "two-step" is an outrageous misnomer; this idiotic white boy maneuver involves far more than two steps, and that's not including the hobble.

Other people stock their medicine cabinets with aspirin, dental floss, and antipsychotics. My shelves are populated with packets of sterile suture materials, omnifarious bandages, and… antipsychotics. I have my own first aid kit at work. I don't actually use it, but it makes me look prepared. The other day, I picked up a box knife to open a package and people scattered. I called after them, "Don't worry, I have butterfly closures!"

What I need are good stories to go with my scars. I can see the scene now: the two of us are knocking back brandy in the cabin of a rickety fishing boat, rolling up our pants legs, engaging in scar history one-upmanship. My advance is the tale of the harrowing bicycle crash. My parry is the tale of the dog attack. But then I'm done. I have a hundred scars and only two good scar stories. It just won't do to explain how I really earned the jagged mark under my chin. "Well, I was on this ladder, see, and I'd put my lemonade on the roof, ya' know, and so I reached for it and... " I need more flair, more excitement, more lying. "The fire blazed and the noxious smoke billowed as the cries of the trapped lab animals rent the night. Just before I blacked out, I broke down the door and set the last of the beagles free." That's what I'm talking about.

For years, my most fervent desire has been for a V-twin cruiser motorcycle. It has been suggested that I might enjoy playing MotoGP on my Xbox 360 from the safety of the sofa instead. This is, of course, ridiculous, but the point is well-taken. After all, I've only ridden bitch so far and the training school people want to know if I am a safe driver. (They did not think "Does a bear knit in the woods?" an amusing answer.) The first time I hopped onto the back of a bike as an adult, I knocked us over. "Oops" did little to mitigate the humiliation of dumping one's bike outside a biker bar during Bike Week before the engine had even been started.

If you never hear from me again, I bought that motorcycle. You may send tax-deductible donations in my name to Population Connection in lieu of flowers.