Irony

I guess it makes sense, in theory.

Last night, I burnt my index finger on my right hand. Nothing serious, but it was bad enough that Jeff and I needed to make an emergency trip to Shoppers Drug Mart for some burn spray.

I spent the entire night toggling between icing it and complaining about it. I really wanted to sit down and write a blog, but couldn't type. I also couldn't hold a pen, which I still can't do. Playing the piano was also out of the question, so instead I finished reading my 87th book of the summer.

It's funny. I spent four months writing whenever possible, then obtained an injury that made it impossible to write. I think that people don't realize how much they use their hands until they are unable to do so. Permanently losing the function of one - or both - of my hands is a horrifying thought, and something I refuse to even contemplate.

Next Monday, when I start school, I should be healed and ready to go. It's just interesting this happened to me now, at the end of my summer as a writer.

Maybe the Gods are trying to tell me something...

Or maybe, I'm just a natural klutz, and some things can't be avoided...