When I was in grade two, I used to help my teacher, Mrs. Flood, after school. [Mrs. Flood had a talking car, you guys — if you left the door open, it would say the door is ajar, which was hilarious because the door was a door, not a jar.] After school, I guess I would help her prep for classes or clean up the classroom, and one day she had me stapling something or other. I don’t remember any of that, but I remember when I stuck my little left index finger in the way of the stapler and stapled it good and hard. I was a selective mute when I was little — it is a real thing! — so I wasn’t, you know, big into talking. So I didn’t cry out or anything, I just walked over to Mrs. Flood and whispered that I had to go home. I must’ve been pale and a little sick-looking, because she asked if I was okay, and I lied and said yes and then left the school and walked to the corner and sat down on the curb and oh god there was a staple through my finger. This girl who was a few grades older than me was riding her bike and saw me and the staple and said, You’re going to have to pull that out, you know. And then she rode away. And then I pulled it out and I felt all pukey but I didn’t puke, I just walked down Radford Drive home to Barrett Crescent (which Google maps tells me is a 7 minute walk but my 6-year-old legs probably meant it was a little bit of a longer walk) and never told a soul.
I cut myself on a staple yesterday. Told a whole bunch of people.