Let me preface this: I’m not a very sanitary person. It’s incredible that I ever even got to cleaning my dishes legitimately instead of shoving them in the dishwasher.
My name is Eli, and I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment in the small town of Ashley, Michigan. Despite my shoestring financial state, I waste money on the dishwasher. I have a certain irrational fear of the sink. The cloudy, warm water enveloping my hands while I scrub the dishes just doesn’t sit right with me. But alas; everything comes to an end at some point, just as the luxury of my washing machine came to an end. And by that, I mean it caught fire. I had somehow fallen asleep with it on, leading to a quick (but rather unnecessary) call to the fire-station. They settled the minor blaze quickly and I removed the burnt heap of junk from the cavity between my sink and my counter. There was some left over scorch marks, but otherwise, there was no damage done to the rest of my apartment.
I was daunted by the thought of scrubbing the dishes every day or two, but it was nothing I was gonna let myself be too intimidated by. After the dishes eventually built up on the rack, I knew it was finally time to clean them hands on for the first time. I filled the sink with warm water, and spattered down onto all of the plates. Finally, I submerged my hands into the depths, slimy food bits slipping past my hand as I gripped a plate. I grabbed the scrub sponge and started to vigorously scrape at the gunk stuck to the porcelain. The murky water completely shrouded my hand, allowing me no sight as to what was happening beneath the surface. I felt the plate, and deeming it clean, raised my hand out of the water.
The skin of my hand had been completely scraped and torn away. Looking down, into the water, I noticed a flourish of red tint overcome the mostly brown colour; my own blood. I dropped the plate, the sudden, stinging pain of the soap in my wound just now hitting me. With a loud smash, the plate fell to the ground and shattered. I stepped back, only to sink the soft bottoms of my feet into tiny glass shards. I regained my balance and tip-toed to the couch, nearly falling onto the couch.
I type this as I pick glass out of the soles of my feet. I don’t quite know what happened, but I’m choking it up to the water being too hot, despite how nonsensical that explanation is.
I’ll update you guys later, when my hand heals and I can type more easily.
