About 25 minutes ago, I turned on the wrong burner on my stove. About 23 minutes ago, I watched a square glass dish formerly filled with brownies explode, covering my small kitchen in thumbnail-sized shards of glass.
I'd have been fine if I hadn't (apparently) decided to immediately stomp my left foot on the ground. Because my feet are at the bottom of my body, there are now two huge pools of blood on my kitchen floor, a trail of red spots leading to my bathroom, and a Hitchcockesque pink tinge to my bathtub. I'm propping my foot up waiting for it to finally clot.
I'm OK, and it was mostly awesome. I recommend that you look down at your foot right now and thank it, probably silently, for all the good work it does.
While you do that, I'll be on the phone with Domino's.
Ouch! ...hee. When I was in ninth grade, I stepped on a nail while wearing socks and striking the stage at the end of our high-school play. I didn't even feel it when it happened. Later, when I was in the bathroom, I heard someone walk in and say, "Oh, my God, who's dripping blood on the floor?" I looked down and there was a bright red pool of blood under my foot. Feet bleed a lot. It turned out to be cool, though, because one girl in the play who was eager to put her EMT training to use ended up bandaging my foot, and it was all exciting because, normally, cool seniors like her ignored dorky little freshmen like me.