I get it, neurosurgeons. You're angry that I managed to somehow blame you for the scar on my leg.
You were so angry, that you used your God-like status to insist that the universe repay me. And 48 hours after that blog post, while I was grocery shopping at Target, the universe caused the Earth to tilt ever-so-slightly. This imperceptible shift caused a can of black beans to roll from the top of my shopping cart (through the holes that were meant for chubby little baby legs) and sail to the floor, slicing my shin with its sharp lip on the way down.
Right next to my "neurosurgery" scar.
I've gotten over that, brain surgeons.
But then last week, you decided I deserved a harsher punishment and used your powers to move the cement stairs that lead to my back door just a tenth of an inch. And I tripped and skinned my other leg. And stubbed my toe. Like a 5 year old.
Okay. Fine. So maybe neurosurgeons had nothing to do with this. Maybe I'm just a klutz who shouldn't be allowed to use stairs and can't be trusted with canned goods. But that's just not as fun.