Dishes

Starting about four years ago, I developed this intense fear of kitchens. This fear is known formally as mageirocophobia, which is technically the fear of cooking, but I have adapted it to encompass everything kitchen-related. Cooking, pulling things out of the oven, dishes, washing the table, sweeping, walking through that profane room... all of these various activities induce this nervous shaking sensation that persists until I exit.

Relentlessly I have been tormented for my public display of avoiding the kitchen. I have never met another individual with the same concerns or symptoms as myself, and this fact contributed greatly to the amount of people who ridicule me.

Finally, and sadly, my fear has proven to be rational.

During the school day on Friday, one of my many teachers specifically said, "Don't get yourself into a hospital this weekend!" Curse you sorcerer and your jinxes!

I returned home after what was probably the most painfully slow school day in the history of teenage angst. Upon return to the house my intentions were to do productive things, such as sleeping and watching documentaries about the cuttlefish and mantis shrimp. My uncle, however, politely asked me to quickly wash the pots and pans before I began my procrastination.

The harbinger of kitchen-induced stress was thrust upon me, and my only available option was to A, complete the chore, or B, flee the scene whilst throwing gravel at objects in my way.

Clearly, option B was more desirable, but due to the lack of gravel on hand, I decided to wash the dishes.

Within 15 seconds of putting dishes under the sudsy water, I received my injury. A glass cup had silently broken in half and cut my right-index finger right on top of the first joint. It wasn't a notch-type of slice. It was more of a the-glass-was-whittling-my-finger-like-an-oak-stick cut.

I applied pressure with my left thumb, and frantically attempted to dial my dad with my nose. After I failed that try, I tried to text my dad with no response. So, I did what any sane person would do: sat on the couch and watched Pawn Stars. Nobody was at home to give me a second opinion on my injury, so I wasn't too sure what to do.

Attractive, yes?

Eventually, my mom got home and did the smart thing (of course) and whipped out some gauze. Not wanting to risk it, I was taken over to the hospital just in case the wound did some nerve damage.

After an extensive period of time in the hospital, I now have a splint and some weird wrapping on my hand as to prevent me from flexing my finger-abs during the healing process.

I've quickly discovered the pros and cons of this situation.

A pretty good pro is that I don't have to do chores. On the flip side, I can't do chores. Oh, you'd like to quickly wash a spoon? NOPE. Can't get that wound wet.

Beyond the former, there aren't too many pros. All is con. GENGHIS Khan.

Showers? I get to act like a car-less New York-er caught in a rainstorm trying desperately to hail a cab, with my arm sticking out of the curtain to protect my splint from getting wet.

Shaving and teeth brushing? I've never seen so much blood.

Instruments? While playing the piano I have exactly 1.58 millimeters on either side of my finger, or else I'll play an extremely dissonant chord. On the other hand, for the time being, I have a built in guitar pick.

Basically the moral of the story is don't face your fears, or else you'll hate the period in between sleeping.