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My dad has his morning preparations down to such a science that after he makes his eggs, he somehow cleans the pan and puts it away while it's still hot. I've never really paid attention to this, since most of the time I'm dead to the world at about 8 in the morning, so of course I had no way of knowing I should have stayed the hell away from the drawer underneath the stove, and just gotten someone else to make my omelet for me, like I always do. Right, so, I burned my left index finger, this little part in between the hand and the knuckle, grabbing the pan, and mother of god. There's a little part that's turning white. I have the confidence to type (with one hand, can't take the other one off the ice pack) because now we're going to talk about NARCOTICS.
This is a story I've told before, but a few years back, dad had dental surgery and he got some drugs for it in case he was hurting afterwards. He got a little bottle of hydrocodone, and he never even used half of it, so we've kept it around for very special occasions like this one. Once, back when I had braces, I woke up in the middle of night after one of those tightenings. It's deplorable what kind of pain we put kids through (rar). I had been clenching my teeth in my sleep. Again, mother of god. I cried and dad gave me some of the same stuff and I was out in five minutes.
This time, since I'm AWAKE, I get to write giddy entries in my diary while everything kicks in. Please don't worry for what, uh, degree of burn it is or anything. It's being slapped with every inflammatory measure we have in the house, and the left hand isn't the one I would use to sustain my livelihood if I went into art, anyway. Also please don't worry about me taking scary drugs, since dad's a physician assistant, and he's allowed (and evidently quite a hardass with addicts begging for prescription drugs). ...I probably made his guilt trip worse by calling him up on his cell phone and asking him if I could take that. He moved pretty quick when I asked him to just make the omelet for me.
This is a story I've told before, but a few years back, dad had dental surgery and he got some drugs for it in case he was hurting afterwards. He got a little bottle of hydrocodone, and he never even used half of it, so we've kept it around for very special occasions like this one. Once, back when I had braces, I woke up in the middle of night after one of those tightenings. It's deplorable what kind of pain we put kids through (rar). I had been clenching my teeth in my sleep. Again, mother of god. I cried and dad gave me some of the same stuff and I was out in five minutes.
This time, since I'm AWAKE, I get to write giddy entries in my diary while everything kicks in. Please don't worry for what, uh, degree of burn it is or anything. It's being slapped with every inflammatory measure we have in the house, and the left hand isn't the one I would use to sustain my livelihood if I went into art, anyway. Also please don't worry about me taking scary drugs, since dad's a physician assistant, and he's allowed (and evidently quite a hardass with addicts begging for prescription drugs). ...I probably made his guilt trip worse by calling him up on his cell phone and asking him if I could take that. He moved pretty quick when I asked him to just make the omelet for me.
