Burn Burn Burn.

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So on Monday morning I was making myself a cup of coffee before work, as I do every morning, and right as I finished pouring boiling hot water into one of those plastic single-serve funnels that you set on top of your mug, it became unsteady and immediately tipped over onto my right hand. To make a long story short, I worked the whole day with a cold compress rubber-banded to my wrist (which, I’d like to point out, none of my co-workers noticed until about 2pm) before going to the urgent care, where I was bandaged up, diagnosed with a first-degree burn, and sent on my merry way with miles of gauze and some potent painkillers. I’ve been walking around all week with my wrist wrapped up like a mummy and many passersby have given me concerned looks, because what they surmise from my bandages is that I’ve attempted, and failed, to kill myself.

I feel pretty dumb when I have to explain to inquirers exactly how I became a “burn victim.” I am an object of pity, but I sense that most people pity my stupidity and clumsiness more than the fact that my flesh was scalded with boiling water and coffee grounds. I guess I can’t really blame them. Moral of the story: from this moment on, I am leaving my coffee preparation to the professionals.

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