Age 16 was a magical number; in that year, I shot myself twice. The first time, I aimed a little .22 across my arm and fired. A black oozing furrow appeared where my forearm was wider than the barrel. The other, I was cleaning an unloaded .22 rifle when it discharged sending a little slug through my calf. Both times, I swabbed the wounds with an alcohol-soaked Q-tip, screamed like a banshee and moved on. This time around was better, a .410 derringer got caught up in my coat-pocket and discharged. It killed my coat, put powder burns down the length of a cargo pocket, then blew a six-inch hole in the pants. The blast was close enough powder burns made my leg hot. However, other than freaking out the Mexican restaurant people, where it happened, and having to talk to the cops, all went well. Accidents happen, but the FBI took my little Derringer to make sure it isn’t a terrorist weapon, and my pants are goners. I think I’ll wait another 55 years for a replay!

I CAN’T BELIEVE… YEA, I CAN

Back in the day when being wild was my credo,

With courage of Titans, and brains of a Frito.

Will-o-wisp attitude oft got me in trouble,

Big dust cloud behind, no one popped my bubble.

Places I traveled, incidents of my own making,

Wine, women, and song, ah what risks I was taking.

Living started late, for I was born at sixteen,

Memories of nothing before, my slate started clean.

Fate warned me then, of life filled with joy, yes, and pain,

Shot holes in my body, bounced off my pea-brain.

Old wounds long healed, years flown by, springtime’s become fall,

Mind spinning, I wonder, have I learned much at all?

And so many years later, I’ve shot me again,

Makes me look at my past, education since then.

I have to accept this is part of a great plan,

But I can’t believe at my age… hell, yea, I can!