How'd You Get that Scar?

This one?
Yes. The one slashed across your face like a river.
I was swinging and my friend threw a rock into the air,
pretending it was a bullet, pretending he was the gun.
My feet pumping, I reached the highest peak,
and that's where it got me. It was like I was a bird,
and my friend was a crazy hunting man.

And you? What about that scar on your hand?
Yes, you. With the blonde hair, no shoes.
I hammered a nail into it. Actually, my brother did.
We were building a new mailbox for my dad.
I can't move my pinky. See?
My boyfriend calls me "pinky." Get it?

The man with the moustache! What's your story?
I have one on my buttocks.
How'd you get it?
A dog bit me. A pitbull with eyes like firecrackers.
Did you tease him?
No. I had a hamburger in my backpocket,
I was taking out the trash like I always do,
when all of a sudden I feel a car crash in my buttocks,
a big boom and sting, and I fall over
'cause I'm only wearing slippers,
and I knock the trashcans down with me.
I got me 300 stitches right here.
Now my wife takes out the garbage.

And you? The one wearing the life preserver.
I don't have scars.
Yes you do.
No. I don't.
You never stabbed yourself with a pencil in third grade?
Never hit your head on the corner of a glass table?
Never nicked yourself shaving?
Well, I once had the chicken pox.
Yeah? And?
That's about it.
Do you have a chicken pox scar?
I do not.
Well, what's that? On your chest. That line.
Oh yeah. That's a scar.
How'd you get it?
War.
Oh.