It seemed like a good idea at the time

I have a dangerous pair of scissors. Now I know that all scissors can be dangerous. But I don't seem to have a lot of those scissors. My Dovos need to be sharpened. They don't even cut thread too well anymore. But these cheapy Craftsmart scissors have to throw their weight around.

They are the ones I cut Betsy with. And Icy Dragon. And my sheets (on accident). And my finger. I've dropped them on my toe as well. That hurt. They've also stabbed a hole in my purse. I probably am not really capable of handling them.

So last night, I decided not to put them in the bag with my stitching, since I am tired of repairing holes in WIPs. Instead I stuck them in my hoodie pocket and sauntered off to my part-time job.

You see where this is going, right?

I got to work, went to sit down in my stool, and stabbed myself, through the hoodie, through my pants, into my hip. Deeply. I screamed. I tugged them out, hoping it was nothing.

I began bleeding profusely. My boss handed me the surprisingly well-stocked first aid kit (I am always pleased to work for a company with a good first aid kit, since my first job's kit contained, and I am not kidding you, salt and a plastic knife. When we had a medical incident, I had to donate from my car's first aid kit), and I stupidly thought I could fix it with one band-aid. A few minutes later, put my hand down there and it was bloody.

I bled through my pants. Thank God they were black or I'd need new pants.

So I had to go patch myself up.

I thought momentarily about going to the ER, since it was a puncture wound, but I have a high deductible and didn't want to explain to Left-brain why we'd be eating beans for months to pay for it, so put on a bigger Band-aid. And thought about that Stephen King short story, "The Mangler," where the pressing machine got possessed and started killing people (it's a good one, Stephen King writes exceptional short stories, better than his novels), and briefly wondered if I own demonic scissors. And then realized how stupid THAT idea was . . .

It was sore as all get out for the rest of the evening. I got home and soaked it and then put Neosporin on. I'm going to watch it; if it gets bad, I'll get it looked at.

And I won't carry scissors in my pocket again.