The answer to that question was what I wrote about in my very first post on this blog, back in November. How precognitive of me. The short answer, if you don't feel like jumping over to read it, is that I was fooling around on a toy that was too small for me, and I dumped myself over and bashed my head on the cement floor at my grandparents' home.
But wait! There's more.
About fifteen years later, when I was twenty-one and living in Munich, I celebrated my first German New Year's Eve, or Silvester, as they call it. Let's say I'd had a few. I'd gone to my room for something, and was heading back to the stairs to climb the four flights back to the party. I guess I wasn't really looking at anything besides my feet, because I ran head-on into a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Dong! I still remember that noise. Split my face open right at the same place where I hit when I fell off that damn red elephant.
I ran back upstairs (just to get the blood pumping, I guess) and walked into the party looking like I'd had a run-in with an axe murderer. Let's get this party started! I got yanked into a back room so as not to cause too much commotion and cleaned up, and someone with a low tolerance for blood called an ambulance.
The EMT who patched me up (by which I mean he laughed and slapped a band-aid on my face) told me "You look fine. Just like Cassius Clay." I walked around Munich for a few days with a black eye, and when it healed up, it was indistinguishable from the old scar. Kids, there's a lesson here somewhere.
That's a pretty bad story. Please, someone, tell me you have a stupider scar story than mine!