Confessions XXXI

This morning, while cutting an onion, my large knife slipped into my left hand's middle finger.

I almost passed out caring for it in true nineteenth-century heroine form, though I immediately put the finger in my mouth, the cut wasn't very deep (and on the side of my finger rather than the fleshy part), and I barely even looked at it while applying Bacitracin and a neon yellow band-aid.

Despite the embarrassment and insult of being someone who not only failed to properly cut an onion, but then almost went unconscious over it, the worst part of the whole experience is the constant replaying of the scenario in my mind that can hardly be stopped for hours afterward: what I could have done differently, what I was doing when the knife slipped, what it felt like to almost black out -- what an idiot I am in general.