We've all hurt ourselves in extremely stupid ways. If you haven't yet, you either are about to do it within seconds DON'T PANIC or you're just lying to yourself. Thankfully, we can laugh at our self-induced misfortunes, so let's do just that.
I'll go first.
The summer after I graduated from law school, I was an abject mess. I was grossly out of shape, burned out, and slipping into a depression that nearly ruined my relationship with my girlfriend, with whom I had just moved into a new apartment. I wasn't working at the time, which gave me lots of time at home doing very little. Everything was Pretty Bad, Actually.
At this time, we had a pair of elderly Siamese cats that my girlfriend (now wife, thankfully) got when she was 12. They slept 22 hours a day, and did the bare minimum in terms of movement while awake. They were sweet animals, though, and would just purr and purr forever when you picked them up.
One day, likely seeking positive feedback from another living thing, I went into our bedroom to try to fish a cat from his slumber on our bed. Just to paint an accurate picture, Tyler weighed about 15 pounds at that point. He was sleeping in approximately the center of the queen-sized bed, and rather than put a knee up on the bed to give myself some support while reaching for him, I just bent at the waist and tried to pick him up without steadying myself. That turned out to be a mistake, because I pulled a muscle in my back reaching for a cat, and it made life miserable for the better part of a month. And in case the physical discomfort wasn't enough, I had to explain that I hurt myself trying to pick up a completely stationary cat.
Around age 7 or so, I was sneaking into the kitchen after dinner. My goal: to successfully retrieve and eat an Oreo without alerting my parents (or siblings, who were snitches). Unfortunately, I slipped on a wet spot, fell on my ass, and slammed the bottom of my foot into the edge of the cabinet with the Oreos, cutting one of my toes bad enough that we had to pile in the car and go to the hospital so I could get stitches.
"Hey, that's just a household accident," you're saying, "it's not that embarrassing." Yeah, until those aforementioned rude siblings regularly refer to it as your Oreo Injury.
I could share a number of different stories here - the time I fell through a plate glass window spinning in a desk chair, the time I sprained my ankle in the mosh pit at a Nickelback concert... but my high watermark, as a human being and a citizen of the world, is the time I went to the ER because I wanted a Slim Jim. I feel it's important context to know that I was a robust youth, a child of a certain size, a Bobby Hill-esque figure, if you will.
I was 8 years old, and I was attempting to open a Slim Jim wrapper with a pair of scissors. I think the pull tab had torn, or maybe packaging wasn't as well-made in 1990, but the point is, I got to a point where I was trying to force the scissors down the side of the wrapper, to split it open.
When you're 8 years old, there's certain things you haven't learned yet. One of them is "put down the Slim Jim and go play outside, tubbo". Another, more immediately learned lesson, is "don't cut toward yourself". The scissors slipped, and went straight into the palm of my hand, about halfway through. It was the kind of puncture wound that can't even be stitched up. The ER docs just washed it out, packed it with gauze, and I went around the rest of that summer with a Husky Youngin' Wanted Some Jerky Stigmata on my palm.
I still have a slight scar 26 years later. Never forget.
Other than the time I shattered my arm bones while wrecking a fucking moped at sunrise, I'll go with the time I very nearly died of an upset tummy. After vomiting, I immediately drank water. I don't know why. I wanted to avoid dehydration or something. I threw up again and repeated. I don't know how long this continued or what my stupid fucking misunderstanding was (I'd thrown up before in my life and have a college degree and had somehow not destroyed myself to that point), but I kept going until I couldn't move."Oh, wait, I think I'm actually dehydrating myself by trying not to dehydrate myself," the fucking idiot realized.
As my hands were curling in on themselves, my skin was turning green, and I threw up black garbage that came from my original sin, I strung together enough intelligence to holler for somebody to take me to the ER, where I fouled up a room until they put an IV of magical solutions (water) in my stupid body that made it work again. What a fucking moron who shouldn't be allowed to breed, but too late!
This was hours after the Bama-LSU title game, so at least it was only the evening's second worst event.