Everything is trying to kill me

I swear, everything here is trying to kill me, from the people biting my head off for minor uniform infractions to the van we ride to and from work with its heart-stopping static shocks and our driver almost rolling us into a ditch; a co-worker of mine downloading an extreme workout regimen and pushing me beyond what I thought possible in the gym, to my cursed M-16 rifle almost getting me killed me on my way home.

It's bone dry here in Afghanistan, and the lack of humidity combined with our rubber soled shoes dragging over the filty carpets on the floor of the 15 passenger van we use for transportation make for some truly hair-raising static shocks after each ride.  Without fail, every time we step out of the van and grab onto the door to avoid falling out,  there's a series of loud cracks (from skin touching metal and the ensuing electrical discharges) and profanities issuing from the mouths of the crew filing out of the rolling tin can of death.

On the way to work one day our driver almost rolled us into a ditch.  In Afghanistan there are ditches (for sewage and the odd rainstorm/flash flood) along the side of the roads which vary in depth from 3 to 5 feet.  I guess she miscalculated the length of the vehicle and the right rear tire rolled into one of them.  We were all thrown around like rag dolls, and I hit my head on the ceiling and almost knocked myself out on the butt of my rifle.  Fortunately, we all escaped injury, save for a few bruises and almost toxic levels of adrenaline.  The Captain sitting on the seat next to me kept asking if I was alright, because he swore he could feel his knee slam into my ribs.  I assured him I was alright, and if he did hit me, I hadn't felt it.  If our driver had been driving any slower, I have no doubt the van would have rolled right on into it and we would have had injuries a bit more serious than our lives flashing before our eyes.

Even things that aren't normally considered sentient are out to get me.  A few days ago, a shelf attacked me.  It happened when I was working at my desk.  I got up to tell a coworker of a change I had made to a spreadsheet (isn't war exciting?) and that's when it happened.  My skull made contact with the sharp metal corner of the shelf that's over my computer.  I yelped in pain, clutched my head and ran outside.

I thought that maybe I'd just bumped my head and I had made a bigger deal of it than there needed to be (though I assure you, it was the most painful thing I had felt in months).  But a few moments later, I felt blood starting to course down my face.  I grabbed a napkin and applied pressure to the wound, hoping that it'd close shortly, but the worried looks on the faces of my co-workers who had followed me outside dictated otherwise.  "I'm going to have to see a doctor, huh?"  They replied in the affirmative. 

It turned out I had sliced my head open and needed 3 staples to close the wound.  The next day, I dropped my rifle on my foot, almost breaking the bones.  The day after that, I hit my funny bone while I was doing pull ups at the gym, and somehow cut my knuckle.  See what I mean when I say everything is trying to kill me?