This morning, I arose from my sleep at around nine o' clock. I lay abed letting waves of panic wash through my agitated little mind for awhile before I decided that this was NOT actually pleasant. The wise words of my WorkFriend Sparks danced into my thoughts ("Fuck your nervousness, meditate, goddammit!!") and I figured I'd give it a try. A few dizzying deep breaths later, and BOOM. Peace.
I woke up three hours later. Now, my choices were as follows:
1. Stay in bed and think about sex.
2. Go down to the bar for half-price wing night.
3. Read a book and drink beer.
4. Read a book and drink tea.
Well, my dear readers, find a seat for your bottom. Against all natural Martin Law, I picked #4. I hummed into the kitchen, practically vibrating with self-righteousness. I selected my tea, filled my Fiesta cup, and stared unceasingly at the microwave until it beeped. I opened the door and reached for my refreshing beverage.
It was then that disaster struck. My large, manly fingers became stuck in the hot little loop on the side of the cup. I shrieked in pained panic, and (reasonably) jerked my hand forcefully away from the cup of steaming liquid. To my deepest distress, the cup came with the fingers. With the cup came the boiling tea.
I know we've talked about the importance of "wearing clothes in the kitchen". To my credit, I was wearing a robe. To NOT my credit, I was wearing it as a cape.
It's going to be ok. I mean, nipples grow back, right?