Good morning, it's time to break your face.

And thus, upon waking at the brightest hour of 6am, I found myself unable to ignore the pathetic groans of a saturated bladder. I arrested myself from the comforts of my plush nest of a bed and made my way stumblingly to the bathroom.

I lifted the lid and seat, dropped trou, and let loose.
I then promptly fainted.

I came to and found myself embracing the toilet.
Now, I don't know how many times you've had the opportunity to feel your arms wrapped tenderly around a porcelain S-curve but it certainly does give one a new perspective on the priority of things.
Apparently, fainting makes a person really value the seriously unappreciated commode.
I made my way back to my feet and just as I was near to fully collecting myself I caught a glimpse of my face in the dingy mirror above my sink.

"Well hello there, gash-in-the-face," said my inward voice as I digested the image of my interrupted upper right cheek. A stream of dark cherry-colored blood ventured down my skin and mingled with my stubble. It was just a small thing. A trifle, really. But a laceration, to be sure. (I'm guessing my face came into passionate contact with the edge of the basin on my trip down to hug the porcelain goddess.)

In all honesty, I have to state that I addressed the whole would-be alarming situation with a relatively noteworthy ambivalence.
"Hmm," said that same little voice, "well this will certainly make for a sexy scar."

I roused the temporary roommate, Chad, with a brief recounting of what I could remember about the sink attacking me and tried to convince him that I was too tired to go to the emergency room. He combated my opinion with a fastidious opposition.
"We need to take you to the emergency room," he insisted, "if you sleep it's only going to scar."
(Uuuuhhhhmmm, this is bad why?- Granted, I'd just hit my head. Clearly things were a bit harried where my reasoning might have usually played a keener role.)

We shuffled into the car. But not before I made a pit stop at Stumptown to fetch some much needed caffeine and show off my recent faucet-induced injury.
The baristas were terribly accommodating and wished me the best as I headed off to Providence Medical Center (also know as Emergency Room Fun Camp).

Once there, I have to admit, everything got a little bit ridiculous.
I began the whole ordeal off by walking up to the admittance desk and announcing that I was the victim of spousal abuse.
With a due sense of alarm, the receptionist stopped whatever she was doing and rushed over to comfort me. I then informed her that I was, of course, kidding. And further, and there was to be any abuse in my relationship, I was clearly the one to be doing the roughing up. (I'm such a man.)
The receptionist laughed (I think in spite of herself) and then began walking me through the process of obtaining swift medical attention. Once we reached the question about whether or not I'd been into the emergency room before I responded by saying,
"Why, yes. Last summer, in fact. Why? Do I get to be part of a frequent flyer program? Do I get a punch card and after 10 visits the 11th is free?"
Her laugh just kind of burst out like it was hiding behind her gums and wasn't really supposed to be released. Like an insistent and untrained puppy.

The rest of the intake flew by and before I knew it I was having my blood pressure checked by a lovely nurse in Triage 1 (I was quite pleased to be place in Triage 1 because God knows how foul Triages 2 and 3 must have been). My blood pressure nurse said that I reminded her of her son in Las Vegas and I asked if her son happened to be named Cher.
Another untrained puppy laugh.

After I was declared perfectly healthy (and unstoppably entertaining) I was taken into the heart of the emergency room to bay 12 where I had a lovely view of the nervous center-like buzz that was the central console of the treatment center. Bay 12 consisted of a padded, white sheeted bed (with all of the imaginable bells and whistles), numerous tools and liquids and brightly colored containers, and a practitioner named Dr. Toy.

Dr. Toy was a jolly sort of 30-something with a smile that reminded me of one of Santa's elves and white doctor's coat that appeared to be a bit biggish. His assistant, Raquel, was additionally quirky with her pink scrunchie (1999? Yes, yes, it's NOAH! I love you, too! Such a lovely thing to hear from you!) and green sneakers that kind of reminded me a two toads strapped to each of her feet. I made ribbiting sounds when she left and Chad almost peed himself.

After discussing the situation leading up to my all-too-friendly encounter with the washroom, (could mean so many things), Dr. Toy declared that I most likely experienced something called Micturition Syncope. I was rapt. I hadn't just stupidly fainted. I had a condition. After informing me of my newfound favorite ailment, Dr. Toy departed with the promise of a swift return to deal with the aftermath of my trauma.

Meanwhile, I had Chad play paparazzi and photograph me with my sizable gauze pad.

Very shortly thereafter, Dr. Toy returned to anesthetize my cheek in preparation for the stitches I was going to need. He was pretty enthusiastic about his lidocane.
"This'll sting and then burn," he noted while getting dangerously close to my open eye with a knitting-needle-sized syringe full of cloudy liquid.
I think by "sting and then burn" Dr. Toy actually meant "I'm trying to kill you." All unpleasantness aside, he was definitely thorough. I think I got something like 5 injections in the space of about 1 square centimeter of cheek. One can never be too careful.

Once Dr. Toy finished harpooning my face he again left the room, informing me en route to the door that he wanted to allow the numbness ample time to develop around the area in question.

As soon as the room was completely vacated by hospital staff, Chad and I spent a few moments discussing how well I was taking the fact that I was the victim of a vicious bout of appliance abuse. We then pondered whether or not the resident nurses and intake assistants perhaps thought he's been beating on me and we creatively came up with the bathroom fainting story as a clever cover. I really hoped so.

Then, all of the sudden, a random doctor with a tie that looked like a piece of wilted paisley wallpaper and a name tag that proudly displayed the title "Frederick" came in, mumbling something about needing to get an extra catheter or some eye of newt or something. Without any reservation I immediately piped up:
"Ah, so you're Frederick," I said with a knowing tone, "we've heard a lot about you."
"Oh, really?" replied Frederick with an unmasked look of surprise, "I hope only good things."
"Oh, but of course," I replied with only the smoothest assurance (only slightly tempered with the most minute hint of obsequiousness), "mostly everyone's just made a point of noting your great taste in neckwear!"
Dr. Frederick looked happily flustered as he muttered an incoherent thank you noise and placed a hand on his limp accessory as he rushed from the room.

Again left in bay 12 with no one but Chad, I decided to break out the tunes and began playing thunderously contagious pop music, calling out the door that there was a dance party in number 12. One of the nurses seated at a desk in the center of the main area looked up, smirked, and bobbed her head a bit to the music. I simply gyrated from my perch atop the padded bed.

Dr. Toy soon returned and stitched up my cheek while the two of us talked about restaurants and working in the service industry. He was quite the man about town, it seemed what with all of the places he'd dined and owners he knew. I must say that I found it positively charming that he could discuss steak tartar while jabbing a scythe-like utility through human flesh and tying knots of black thread around smushy skin.

Once through, Dr. Toy thanked me for my positive attitude and told me the nurse with information about taking care of my wound would come in momentarily to send me home well-educated about my changing body.

Anna was the next victim of my eccentricity and she came bearing the release paperwork along with some sage advice about sun damage and the need to use vitamin E at night as opposed to during the day (oil, as it turns out, attracts sunlight which can exacerbate scarring and we simply couldn't have that). She then instructed me to apply some SPF 50 to the stitched area when in the sunshine in order to fend of those pesky rays.
I asked her if she was sponsored by Coppertone and she replied with, "Nope. Neutrogena, actually."

I liked Anna.

She then told me that the nurses in the main area had all been discussing "the hilarious guy in number 12" and decided that I was the most fun person they'd ever had in the ER. I stoically accepted the nomination and gave a dramatic Rodeo Queen wave to the scrubbies outside the room. My magnanimity never ceases to blossom.

Chad and I then returned to Belmont where I popped into Stumptown to show the baristas my lovely new needlework. Jessie, one of my current favorites, told me I looked really pretty and volunteered to hit me in the face on the other cheek to balance out the look.

I told her I was doing alright for the moment but if I ever decided I did need the service, she'd be the first person I'd call.
"Well, you know you kind of had this coming, right?" she prompted.
I inquired as to why and she quickly responded:
"If someone was constantly putting their dead skin and spit-up toothpaste down your throat don't you think you'd hit them, too?"

She had a point.

So, I guess the moral of this whole story is that one should never refrain from appreciating their bathroom fixtures. Take some time to love on your lavatory. Otherwise, it just might bite back.

Have you hugged kissed a Kohler today?
If not, you could end up like this...