I sat quietly, chatting with the revelers assembled. After about 40 minutes of pleasantries, I heard a loud thud and clanging noise at the exact moment I suffered a mighty blow to my head.
A heavy, wrought iron candle holder had vibrated itself off of the shelf two feet above and toppled down into my flesh."Are you okay?" my wife asked, making a mental note to give Goodwill my entire wardrobe and plush toys.
"Oww. $#!*," I exhaled, clutching a batch of scalp.
When I could proceed, I removed my hand from the pulsating pain. I felt blood flow swiftly down my forehead. There was an alarming puddle of crimson in my palm.
Fortunately, a young man with medical training attended to the wound in the lavatory and made the immediate danger and my concerns go away through fast action.
I returned to the party in the nick of time. The cake was almost history.
As I forked dessert, I heard whispers on my near-death experience, "It was Mrs. Jackson in the living room with the candlestick."
I guess this picture is fine, however the print is alarming on the pale side. Already this afternoon, my wife has emailed twice to ask how I'm feeling and if I laid out my good suit and urn. 
I've color-corrected the image, as you can see here, and I do look a bit more vital and the salesmen have stopped knocking on the doors with oxygen cannisters and flexible tubing.
The irony is my previous About.com photo was published far off into the other extreme, way too dark. I look like I'm from Kabul and made a deal on a yak.
