When I Was A Kid, I Loved To Help My Mom Cook. One Day, When I Was Maybe 6 Or 7, We Were Making Homemade

When I was a kid, I loved to help my mom cook. One day, when I was maybe 6 or 7, we were making homemade french fries. I was a bit apprehensive to use the potato peeler, but I was able to get the hang of it. I must've got a little too comfortable, because the next thing I knew, I had peeled.. my finger.

I didn't know so much blood could come out of a finger, really. I almost passed out just from the sight - I've always had that problem. That's why I have to lay down when having my blood drawn.

The scar is still here today: a pale crescent moon on the tip of my index finger. And I still can't use a potato peeler.

scars in fiction: I got this trying to save my lover from an assassin- but tragically, I was too late. now I carry the mark of my failure with me always, and I can never forget~

scars in real life: so I was trying to open macaroni sauce with a paring knife

thank you thank you *takes a gay little bow*

sometimes I think I should use more capital letters in my tumblr posts. but then I remember I'm a bad bitch who can do whatever I want

being non-binary is fun. I wanna be a car

actually I like my own posts bc I love myself. it's called self care

I was sitting on my computer trying to look at Tumblr when I began to hear this clicking sound. Click click click. Click click click. Click click click click. Again and again. I tried to ignore it at first. I thought it must be from something I was doing. But I looked at my computer chair, my headphones, everything. I stood up. It wasn't going away.

I started to panic, over-stimulated. I was already stressed, and that certainly didn't help. What could it be? I called in family members. Like a flock of birds, we descended upon the room. Searching for the source of that god-forsaken sound. I tore apart my room. I listened hard and I listened long. I could pinpoint the general location, but couldn't identify the source. I even tried listening to the walls.

I finally laid on the floor, in despair and defeat. Then I heard it; it was coming from the ground. I pressed my ear against it. I wracked my brain for what this sound could be coming from the floor. Was it the air conditioner? The vents? A heart beating beneath the floorboards? Finally, I realized.

It was the fan. I had turned it on downstairs.

I wonder what Edgar Allan Poe would say if he could read this now.