Cuts Like A Knife

They say karma is a bitch. Or maybe it's just that I am.

I prefer to think that doing things in a hurry is actually the bitch, the one that caused me to type this dear blog from the Emergency Room of the hospital. Let me explain.

I had just wrapped up writing the Evolution of T.O.W. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it's not. After all, it wasn't the nicest thing I'd ever put to paper. I realized that some people might find the entry harsh. But shit, it is what it is.

Anywho, to redeem myself, I went into the kitchen to start preparing dinner for my sister-in-law's family as they've been in town since the accident. It's my show of goodwill. When people are in pain -- whether it's physical or emotional -- I cook and I do it darn well... most of the time.

Because I was preparing both chicken francese and chicken marsala concurrently, I was doing a bit of hustling and bustling. It was the wine that would be my fatal downfall. No, I wasn't drinking it. That was one of the key ingredients in my palate-pleasing chicken ensemble. I retrieved the wine opener from the cabinet, the one that Mr. Ex is constantly deeming a piece of shit. Was he ever right. The cork became lodged in the bottle, preventing the 1/2 of cup of wine I needed from coming out.

Grrrr. Frustrated at the notion that my gourmet meal was very close to burning up, I reached for the nearest sharp object, which happened to be one of my cutting knives. I pulled my right hand back and wrapped my left hand around the bottle. 1... 2... 3... I let down as hard as I could at what I thought was the direction of the cork.
Well, not so much. The knife ended up firmly planted IN MY HAND. My eyes widened as I stared at the gaping wound and a puddle of blood start to bubble in the area. I have a pretty strong stomach, but I immediately got images of a severed artery, despite not knowing if there even is one of those in the area.