When I got run over, it was one of the most surreal moments in my life. Roadworks had been done during the day on the street I was crossing, so the zebra crossing machine thingies weren't on. The lane right in front of me is at a standstill; I go on tiptoes and look down the road and don't see [img]/xxx.gif[/img][img]/xxx.gif[/img][img]/xxx.gif[/img][img]/xxx.gif[/img] so I bolt. Halfway across, I just knew I was screwed; I turn my head to my left and see a red Ford Fiesta bombing it at me.

"Oh fu--" *BLAT!*

The next thing I know, I'm lying on my front in the road. I don't know quite where in the road I am, but logic tells me that if I roll left (I don't dare open my eyes yet) a few times, I should reach the pavement. Trying to roll up the kerb was weird, but seemed to work out alright. Finally on my back, I hear footsteps and open my eyes to see the owner of the shop I was heading for looking down at me.

"Bloody hell mate, you alright?"

I reach into a pocket, pull out my cigarettes and then spark one up.

"I am now." And then I start giggling like a mothersmurfer.

I guess it must have been shock, since I didn't feel a damn thing. What apparently happened is the car hit me in the left knee initially, causing it to buckle. The additional momentum of the car + me buckling resulted in me headbutting the windshield, taking all the skin off the left side of my face, giving me two black eyes and several small scars around my left eye where individual shards dug in. Then comes the fun bit; the car finally comes to a stop and whee! I go flying a further two meters down the road.

The next day, the left side of my face is one heaving mass of scab and my eyes are so swollen I can't even open them; naturally, I strut around as school turfs out since I got the day off.

The moral of this story is: chicks dig scars.