So my boss’s goat keeps breaking 4 pound jars of honey. That little bastard has broken two 4-pound jars of honey in two days.
My first task at work yesterday morning was to clean up the mess from the broken jar of honey. I got it cleaned up, and the bits of broken glass went in the trash can. Which was overflowing. So I pulled the bag out and headed to the designated spot for trash for the day. As I rounded the corner, the bag bounced off a table and slammed into my leg. A piece of the broken glass sliced my calf open. I could tell by the way it felt that it wasn’t good. When I looked at it, I threw up in my mouth a little. It made me think of dissecting a chicken.
After I made myself look away, I grabbed a clean towel from the pile to stop the bleeding, and went hopping around looking for the boss because I knew I needed help. The boss spotted me before I could find him and asked what was wrong.
Side note: I’m pretty sure I looked absolutely ridiculous, hobbling around squishing a towel into my calf, helplessly trying to figure out a discreet way to scream for my boss. Thank heaven I didn’t actually have to figure that one out because I’m pretty sure I never could have done it.
I explained what happened and asked him to see if the BBQ guys had any butterfly bandages in their first aid kit. As the boss and Brother Hill were digging through the kit, I hobbled around in circles squishing the towel onto the cut until I realized that I was hobbling in circles at the end of a picnic table and decided I should probably sit down.
Cleaning that fucker didn’t feel good. As I complained “that stings!!!” Brother Hill said he was trying to find the stuff that would sting worse. Butterfly bandages wouldn’t hold it shut at all, so Brother Hill pulled out closure straps. My boss got me patched up pretty well and covered it all with a few bandaid.
The boss actually had it closed up really nicely, but Sunshine couldn’t find any closure straps so it’s definitely going to leave a big, ugly scar since I refuse to incur the medical bills for stitches.
What Sunshine DVD wind up bringing home was some shit called “new skin”, smelled like acetone, and burned like the acid in Satan’s venomous spit. That was the first time I made any noise other than a whimper. My non-breathing ass actually smoked an entire non-menthol cigarette.
It still hurts from Satan’s venomous spit this morning. I think I’m going to have something chocolate & peanut butter for breakfast. Because that’s how my crybaby ass does adulting today.