so um yeah. pass the ice.

(source)

So I burnt my hand today.

Making Lipton Sidekicks.

Oh yeah. Because that just reaks of daring bad-ass like actions.

I burnt my hand being a house girlfriend (get it? I made a funny).

Sometime I really wonder why it is women do things the way we do... like sulk when we burn our hands. Shouldn't we be strong and brave like men and laugh in the face of burning flesh, even as it continues to burn?

But instead I just stand in shock for a few moments, then clean up the spilt mess everywhere, and then whimper about ice. Oh yeah, that's what I'm supposed to do with a burn. Stop the burning. Huh.

Meanwhile chuckles mc-chuckilson over on the couch thinks its grand entertainment, and calls the whole scenario cute. Huh. Someone really has to explain that logic to me. I mean yes, I understand the whole thing is rather comical... because really who can't make a pot of sidekicks? But since when am I not allowed to wallow when I hurt myself without feeling guilty about it? Maybe it's just that guilt complex that I have (hey, and don't make fun, because Gina has it to!).

So I've just spent the last 2.25 hours watching Sherlock Holmes with a bag of ice cubes at my side and applying in 15 minute intervals. My first aid instructor would be proud (the movie, by the way, was one of the best movies I've seen in quite a few months, and it was thoroughly enjoyed by both myself and mr. chuckles).

So, the moral of this story is clearly, don't let your sidekicks burn because if you try to scrap them off the bottom of the pot, your spoon will become dislodged, spewing boiling hot saucey water all over your hand, making it resemble a lobster claw.

The end.