Life, Fannishness, and Thespic Infatuation

I think my zumba instructor is trying to cripple me. She's been working on our legs, and after strength training class tonight, while my legs don't hurt per se, I cannot go up and down the stairs to do the laundry. My legs are too weak.

Ow?

So apparently my subconscious wants me to be able to commiserate with Dean far more than I would actually like to.

In an incredible, astounding display of clumsiness today, I managed to hit my head (face, actually) on the car door frame in such a way as to leave a significant gash on my brow bone and a bloody cut on my eyelid.

It hurt.

After the initial pain, I took a look at my glasses to see how badly the frames were bent (they came out pretty much okay), then looked in the mirror and realized I was bleeding. A lot.

Luckily, I had some hand cleaning towelettes in the glove box that have alcohol in them, so I was able to start mopping up the blood.

Of course we have no ice or cold compress in the office, so in true Winchester fashion, I'm holding a cold can of soda pop (the boys would use a beer bottle, I'm sure) to my eye.

It's swelling up nicely.

Oh, and we have no appropriately sized bandages. Not a butterfly bandage in sight.

I need a really good story to go with the injury.