War wound – the boob burn
Babies are magical beings. They have a way of screaming and getting whatever they want.
As adults mimicking their mannerisms leads us straight to a psych ward in a straight jacket.
As one of my newly acquired daily activities I was prepping new bottles by following directions. Boiling them in water before fixing one for Blair.
Exhaustion does not prepare you of warn you to be careful. You realize it’s hot water. You do not need to be told to NOT spill it on yourself – however being the tired and not overly cautious person I am – Crap happened.
I’m minding my own business. Waters boiled, bottles perfected and ready to be served room temp. All I have to do is retrieve them.
I look around for my protector. The end of a wooden spoon catches my eye – perfect! I can avoid burning the shit out my hands and get them dry with ease.
The wooden spoon handle makes contact with the inside of the bottle. I lift – not so carefully – thinking I have just the right angle to perfect my craft.
Then S-L-O-W-M-O-T-I-O-N hits as the bottle drops back into the water creating a massive tsunami that lands on the left side of my shirt. BAM it burns.
As a psycho I pull my shirt over my head and run to complain to that normal guy that it hurt like a bitch.
He laughs and says ‘Why would you do that to your boob?’
He also wises up and tells me to slap aloe Vera on it. And boy did I.
Today I have a war wound – three perfect circles on my First Class A cup. No, I will not so pictures – this is not a porn story.