Ouch. There is something wrong. The sharp pain runs quick through my hand. I drop the pile of papers I was stacking on to the table and inspect my injured appendage. Ah, the culprit. The ever annoying papercut.
Papercuts are the worst. I’d rather lop off a chunk of flesh that have a paper cut. At least if you injure yourself badly enough to require medical attention, you know damn well enough to leave it alone and be careful. Not so much with a mere flesh wound.
You always forget about it and it’s always the day you touch and handle everything you own that could possibly irritate it. Today you eat fish so you’ll have to squeeze lemon juice. You run out of room in the dishwasher and have to put your hand in scalding hot dish water. Everything that will make you remember that tiny ass little cut on your hand that doesn’t exempt you from getting out of any responsibilities.
Got a cold? No dishwashing for you! I’m not catching your crap.
Have stitches in your finger? No dishwashing for you! It might get infected. Let me squeeze that lemon for you. You poor thing.
Got a papercut from hell that you can’t tell where it is and have no idea why it hurts like you’re being tortured? Suck it up buttercup. Don’t be such a pussy.