I managed to slop a bowl's worth of steaming hot green chile stew over my right hand this evening, so not only did I scald the living fuck out of my mouse hand, I simulataniously opened all the pores on my wrist, palm and fingers and slopped in thirty zillion gallons of spiced-to-fuck broth.

I cried like the little girl that I am for thirty minutes, and then spent the rest of evening soaking the poor hand in sugar water and/or drenching it in aloe. I'm debating whether or not I could pull off the "I scaled my mouse hand; I can't possibly design for the next week" call to my boss. I'm also debating if I want to take the Vicodin now or later or both.

Both is winning.

Adam insisted it's not actually that bad and suggested I suck it up. When that didn't go over well, he placated me with really decent merlot and a classic Star Trek episode starring Joan Collins. He's good. I can tell.

Also, fucking ow.

Stew was good, though.