Burned

I was going to write you a big long "Why hellllooooo, I haven't written in three days, you must miss me, so terribly much." But then Jennifer came over and I was making carrot soup and we were chatting and I wasn't paying enough attention when I lifted the lid off the pot of boiling water and managed to angle the stream of steam directly at my wrist, and that was an hour ago, and motherfucker, it hurts.

I've got it resting on ice right now, which Jennifer put into a bag for me because she is also a great neighbour and I am afraid of naked ice.

I'm getting over this fear, which dates back to ripping my tongue off the Red Rocket on the playground, where I had stuck it in January just to see what would happen. Because five years ago there wouldn't have been any ice in my freezer, period, and even two years ago I would rather have stood with my wrist under the tap for 15 minutes rather than face the cracky scrapey sound of ice cubes coming out of the tray and rubbing against each other just a dishtowel's thickness away from my tender skin.

So feeling like I would have iced myself today feels like a bit of an accomplishment. Even if I know it would have involved spoons and much hopping up and down and waggling of hands in the air before the beautiful cool ice got nestled up against my raging wrist.