The people at work think it's a good idea to cut cake by setting the pan on the counter, bracing it against their hip and pulling the knife toward them with a shocking amount of force. The cake pan, I should add, has rounded sides. The knives are dull. People have actually tried to train me to do this and get very frustrated when I refuse to take part in their little 'Darwinism in action' experiment. Not that I don't respect a dramatic 'throwing oneself upon one's sword', but the chocolate icing on the knife would detract a little from the melodrama. I expressed some mild concern that my little brother might not like me enough to donate organs, should the pan slip off the counter and the knife land square in the middle of my gut, but they just rolled their eyes. This is one of those surprisingly frequent occasions where I get the feeling I'll be repeating this as a police statement.
Today, I have a job interview, followed immediately by dental surgery. That's about as much hell as you can pack into one day without the presence of thumb-screws or my ex. I'm very tempted to hide under the bed and see how long it takes people to find me.
Today, I have a job interview, followed immediately by dental surgery. That's about as much hell as you can pack into one day without the presence of thumb-screws or my ex. I'm very tempted to hide under the bed and see how long it takes people to find me.