proof that God hates me

I had a very nice walk up Namsan Wednesday night. I started at the unusually late hour of 10:30PM. Quiet walk. Not too many folks out. The stairs were still unlit at some points, which wasn't cool. Mosquitoes were flying patrols everywhere, radioing back and forth about us blood-bags.

I got back home, sweaty as always but relieved to have the air conditioning already cranked up. Stripped out of my drenched clothes and just... air dried.

So there I was, gloriously naked, when the desire for a glass of milk hit me. I lumbered over to my kitchen cabinet, opened it up and searched for my milk glass. Saw it on the top shelf, where I'd placed it the other day to stop some plastic plates from sliding down. I prop the plates on their sides, you see, and sometimes they don't stay up.

I removed the glass and one rebellious plate slid out, did some sort of twirl as it fell toward me, then struck me edgewise right on the Johnson.

"Son of a bitch!" I announced.

I've never experienced attempted penile beheading by flying saucer before. One doesn't normally expect domestic violence to erupt out of one's kitchen cabinet, but such was the case this evening. I now view my plates with more suspicion than usual.


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