Jealous?

So... tonight, I tripped down Lincoln Road with my 5-foot high Marimekko fabric wall hanging. Yeah, if you saw the dick struggling with a gigantic canvas, that was me.

Hi.

Thanks for helping, asshole.

On the plus side, it looks fantastic. Pictures to follow.

I was feeling celebratory. My place is almost totally furnished.

So, tonight I made myself a turkey meatloaf.

I baked the shit out of it.

Then I cut it with one of my cheaper Henkels knives. It's a light knife, but a carving knife nonetheless.

I learned a very important lesson this evening.

Would you like to know what it is?

Okay.

I'll tell you.

The lesson I learned this evening is:

Wait for it.

Are you waiting?

Wait a little longer.

A little longer...

A little... wait! Where are you going! Okay, okay, come back.

The lesson I learned this evening is under no circumstances should you lean a knife on the edge of your hot glass baking dish on top of the stove, while wearing no shoes. Because then, you will reach for a plate, and bump the knife's handle, and it will clatter to the floor, and you'll be like, "Ow. Did that cut me? I can't really tell because it's not bleeding yet, and there's meatloaf all over my foot, and my foot is kind of hurtingly numb because obviously the knife fell on it, and that'll probably be a bruise, because that hurts like the knife hit it. But did it cut me?"

And then you'll watch floods of blood ooze out of a rather nasty looking, deep gash in your foot between your big and second toe... that took a second to bleed, but is now bleeding rather profusely...

and you'll wonder how deep a cut has to be before you need to go to the hospital to get stitches.

and first you'll debate calling your office manager and asking her.

and then you'll debate calling your mother and asking her.

and then you don't want to hear your mother's anti-emergency-room lectures, and remember that one time she yelled at you for getting a huge splinter in your toe when you were reading Harry Potter on the deck, and she didn't yell at you because you got the splinter, but because you insisted on going to the emergency room, where, um, HELLO, the splinter was like three quarters of an inch into your big toe...

and then you'll just decide that you shouldn't be a pussy, and if it becomes a real problem, that'll maybe mean a half day of work, and AWESOME!

and then you'll be weirded out that the prospect of spending an afternoon in the hospital is more appealing than spending an afternoon at work...

and then you'll wonder why suddenly you're getting all these nasty letters from opposing counsel accusing you of being a total jerk...

and then you'll realize you're standing in a puddle of blood in your kitchen floor, and you'll hop to the tub and put your poor clotted and besotted foot under the faucet.

and then you'll realize that your second toe is sort of numb.

because you may have cut a nerve.

and then you'll think about how this is sort of uncomfortable.

and how your toe feels like it's moving all the time, even though it's not.

and how your foot feels sort of hot on the top.

and you'll wonder if the nerve will grow back, or if it'll be like that forever, like that weird girl, Justa's, boyfriend in college who couldn't feel the side of his face.

and then you'll think about how you're an asshole.

Jealous?

Ick.

For any of you who care... or were there...

I'm still hungover from Saturday night. It's 7:21 on Monday night.

There was hotsauce, mustard, turkey, coconut, and two kinds of crackers on my kitchen floor, carefully allayed, when I woke up on Sunday morning, having absolutely no recollection of leaving the White Room and no recollection of going to Vagabond.

I also have no idea how I got home.

But it's nice to hear that I can be blackout drunk and not make a total ass out of myself; I was well behaved.

Cold comfort.

I still want to die.