You guys, I have a confession to make. Or maybe not a confession so much as a realization.
I’m never going to grow out of my clumsy phase.
I mean, I am not Cato and Clouseau levels, but I am probably the only person I know who can be actively thinking to herself “I should probably be using the guard on this mandolin slicerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrOWWWWWW FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
Because that is pretty much exactly what happened.
To quote the Jerk, if you are squeamish and don’t like to see injuries or snails, look away.
Yep. I have managed to carve a tiny chunk of my finger off. Mandolin slicer is sharp, yo. And that is just one of the multitude of injuries that I have inflicted on myself. Whapping my knees on my desk is an everyday occurrence. Misjudging where the wall is in relation to the door and catching it with my shoulder or elbow is pretty common, too. Let’s not even talk about how many times I have broken my toes on walls, coffee tables, doorjambs, or bare fucking floors. Also, I cook and bake. Like, a lot. I have done all but set myself on fire.1
I actually kind of amazed that I have made it this far without, yanno, doing more lasting damage to myself.
1 — I have a gas stove. …..*knocks on wood to throw off jinxes*