The Worst Day of my Life

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Bio

It was almost four years ago, but I still remember it as if it happened this morning. There I was, sat in my big, pink, fluffy, Hello Kitty pajamas. I’d pulled an all-nighter just to play video games with my friends overseas. Despite being exhausted, I was giddy from all the fun I’d had for the past, countless, hours.

“I’ll be right back guys, gonna grab some food.” I said, putting down my thick headset. I had to de-tangle myself from the many wires which connected to the various things sat on my desk. Once freed, I lazily trod down to the kitchen. Through the large windows in the sacred-grounds-of-food, I could see my parents swimming in our pool and enjoying the Florida sun. I hissed, feeling my nocturnal eyes burning at the mere sight of golden rays embracing the outside world like a dry, hot blanket.

After standing in the light of the fridge (the only light I will accept) for what felt like ten minutes alone, I eventually decided that I had no energy to actually cook something… or even put a sandwich together. Microwave food it is! Swinging open a cupboard, I nabbed the closest thing to me… a tin of hoop-shaped tomato-soaked pasta. It was an easy preparation process; I’d been doing it since I was at least eleven.

Step 1. Grab can opener.
Step 2. Latch can opener onto can.
Step 3. Twist can opener to open can.
Step 4. Dump contents into bowl.
Step 5. Use spoon to scrape any stragglers into bowl.
Step 6. Put spoon to the side, and set the can in the recycle bin.
Step 7. Put bowl in the microwave.

You’d think, after years, and years of doing this, I would eventually remember it off by heart. But no; This story has only a slight happy ending.

After putting the bowl in the microwave, I waited… and waited. “Beep beep beep!” It was ready after a record-breaking one-minute fifty-nine.

Step 8. Remove bowl from microwave… CAREFULLY.
Step 9. Pick up spoon…..

Pick up spoon… Spoon? Hello? Where is spoon? In my tired stupor, I decided not to actually use my eyes to try and find my dear old pal’, spoon. No no, I decided to use my left hand to aimlessly wave around in an attempt to find spoon. It happened in the blink of an eye. It felt like a prick by a needle, then suddenly the empty can was on the floor. But wait, wasn’t it supposed to be in the bin? Oh and well well well, look who comes rolling out of mister can!? SPOON!

Drip…. Drip- A pitter patter can be heard. As my eyes went to inspect the source, I certainly was not prepared to see what I saw. The pinky on my left hand was severed at almost a ninety-degree angle. The can lid had sliced cleanly through it. I screamed like a dolphin out of water and cradled my wound, trying to slow down the red waterfall which relentlessly poured from it. It may or may not be an exaggeration, but I cherish this story with an air of drama unbeknownst to any other.

My parents could certainly hear me from outside and rushed in to see what had happened. They panicked around me, thinking I had lost a finger, or electrocuted myself or… or something!

“Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!” Was all I could scream as I jumped up and down. I knew nobody was going to actually touch my wound, but I was as protective as could be over it. After much convincing, I allowed my dad to see my pinky.

“Holy smokes!” Was the last thing I wanted to hear. Next thing I knew, I was being rushed toward the emergency walk in at the local doctors. The second last thing I wanted to hear was that my nurse didn’t speak much English. As she tried to clean up my finger, I kept asking questions-

“Is it bad?” – “Yes.”
“Will I need stitches?” – “Yes.”
“Will it hurt?” – “Yes.”
“Is there any other way?” – “Yes.”
“Do I really need stitches!?” – “Yes.”

By this point, I was really psyching myself out. I would take literally -anything- other than this. The bin nearby was almost full with bloody bandages, the sight made me throw up. Luckily the nurse was able to grab the bin of bloody bandages and thrust it in my face so that I could throw up in there instead… oh and what a lovely view of bloody bandages. She also bonked the top of my head with the side of the bin.

I was getting drowsy from all of the crying and screaming I was doing. I refused to let my doctor actually assess my finger and do anything with it. This is the case with all of my doctors, as I refuse to be in the same room as a needle.

“This is a nightmare… Remind me to take a day off next time you come here.” I could remember him saying. A few of the nurses were laughing in the corridor, which only made me angry. I know full well I was making a big deal out of nothing, but when you have a phobia… you have a phobia! Eventually I felt sleepy enough to let my guard down. It took my dad having to hold down my arm for the doctor to actually do anything with my poor little finger.

During the process, pictures were taken… I refused to see them until my finger was fully healed. It truly looked like a little pork sausage cut in half and squirted to death with ketchup.

After it was all done, my parents brought their grown-ass daughter a big slurpie and some chocolate for being such a good girl. To this day, I now have a lovely spiral-shaped scar that runs up my left pinky. It serves as a reminder of my worst day ever. The day I got stitches for the first time, when I have a dire needle phobia.

I made the above-photo to commemorate the day I stopped eating hoop-pasta (TOTALLY AVOIDING COPYRIGHTS). When we got home, I daren’t even look at the cold bowl I had prepared two hours prior… and dumped it in the sink with a sense of justice.

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