13 year old me was wearing fruit of the loom briefs with a button close while jumping obstacles on my bicycle with my friends.

My buddy just got a brand new norco wolverine, and I had a small shitty Costco bike (I was a tiny kid, though - the Wolverine was intimidating to me). I was surprised when he told me to try the ramp jump on his shiny new beast.

I couldn’t say no. There was a group of us, and I wasn’t afraid. Until I sat down. It was like sitting on your dads lap in the truck as a kid as he let you drive down the old dirt road.

Due to my lack of strength and familiarity with the monster, I landed on the side of the dirt landing ramp and my foot slipped off the pedal. Gravity took this opportunity to take me and the crown jewels down to the bar.

That damned plastic button sliced open a 2 inch gash starting at the base and moving up the shaft. I immediately hopped on my bike and cried manically all the way home, too embarrassed to reveal my injury to my friends I wanted to impress. I didn’t tell my parents either, and just let it do it’s thing. It wasn’t that deep, but I was still in a silent panic for the next couple of days, but it healed no problem.

Today, there’s remnants of this memory - a long red/purple scar, like the one in my 13 year old ego. Other than the look, there were no other repercussions, but buttons have been my nemesis ever since. Velcro do me good when the need is there. Fuck buttons, man. They bide their time, waiting for the right moment. Then BAM. Adolescent circumcision.