When I was four, I found out socks and hardwood floors are a good combination. The low coefficient of friction applied between the two materials allows for an enjoyable slide. I spent an entire morning experimenting with this phenomenon, gradually increasing the length of each interval during which I ran, to permit a subsequently longer slide. Eventually, I decided to begin the interval at the end of each halland end it in the dining room, a stretch close to twenty-five feet. Using my superior judgement, I kept in my mind the danger of the sliding door separating the dining room from the living room. As 25 feet was the maximum length to realistically run inside the cramped quarters of my house, I wanted to give my best effort, my final slide. I braced my foot against the flimsy mirror bolted loosely to the plaster wall at the end of the hall, an idea my 4-year-old mind did not think twice of. I tensed my muscles down the hall as fast as my one-and-a-half-foot legs could carry me. I each the dining room, locked my legs, and began to slide. I did so for five feet, before I lost my footing. Luckily the sliding door was open, so I did not painfully collide with it. Instead,my head was oriented in a perfect-enough manner that it wholeheartedly embraced a lip on the metal track of the door. The skin on the right-most portion of my forehead ruptured in a perfect line, something I could not fully appreciate, as I had also been knocked unconscious. I woke up in a communal operating room, with other children’s wails permeating through the air. I was stoic, not only as a result of me having been a bad*ss four-year-old, but also due to local anesthesia. I saw a doctor’s practiced hand- which occupied a quarter of my vision- shift as it wove together the two flaps of my skin. It lasted for an enjoyable five minutes. I lost many a brain cell that day. Socks and hardwood floors, apparently, are a bad combination.