While I was at Amelia’s, we stopped in High’s to get some drinks, because I’m a Coke-addict of frightening proportions, and when we got to the counter, the clerk — who I SWEAR was twelve years old — gave me a big smile and said, “That’s cool.” I proceeded to stare at her blankly for about a minute before my brain actually kicked in. “OH! Yeah, the eyebrow. Thanks.”

A piece of metal lanced through my fucking face, and I forget its there. Go, me.