I Ingested Windex and Lived to Blog About It

So, the other night I found myself in a familiar position: Windex-ing my bathroom mirror while getting ready for a date.

(Note: This was not because I planned on having the guy over to my place – we were, in fact, actually meeting in his town. I just enjoy having a streak-free shine on my bathroom mirror at all possible times. Plus, as any of my ex-roommates can attest, I have this problem where my bathroom mirror always gets inexplicably filthy for no reason.)

(Or maybe it’s less “for no reason” and more because I brush my teeth like a coked-out toddler, but whatever.)

(…are coked-out toddlers a thing? I really hope not.)

Anyway. As I waxed-on-waxed-off the reflective surface with a fresh Windex wipe, something (and I have no clue what, which clearly goes to show how important it was) startled me – causing me to abruptly jerk my hand toward myself. Then, in the midst of the hand-jerk, my finger got stuck on an innocent-looking-but-actually-very-dangerous corner of the mirror… AND IT WAS SLICED OPEN. (Or just slightly cut, but still.)

Frazzled, I instantly put the bleeding finger in my mouth for some nurturing self-licking…

…only to find that THE WINDEX WIPE WAS STILL IN MY HAND!

And so before I knew what I was doing, I licked it. I licked the Windex.

I licked. The fucking. Windex, y’all.

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Possibly the worst reenactment ever, because a) I had an ACTUAL wipe in my mouth, not just the package, and b) the look on my face was about ten times more terrified than it is here, but c) I’m posting this anyways because I look skinny and that’s really all that matters in the end.

After my life quickly flashed before my eyes (mostly a montage of Mariah Carey, football, cheesecake, and sandwiches… oh, and friends and family), I suddenly went into survival mode and started scrubbing my tongue and rinsing my mouth (with water, Listerine, and – inadvertently – tears) and spitting vigorously into my sink while internally repeating the Sanskrit mantra Om Namah Shivayah (“I honor the divinity that resides within me”… I know this thanks to years of earnest Hindu study Eat, Pray, Love) to myself until I finally felt like a human again.

Then I looked down at my cut finger and saw that it wasn’t even really bleeding, which led me to remember how a phlebotomist recently accused my blood of not flowing, and so then I proceeded to fall into an emotional spiral of panic about how I must be dead inside. (Or something.)

But then I closed my eyes and gave myself a few more meditation/affirmation/breathing minutes – my new this-time-in-English affirmation being, My body restores itself to its natural state of perfect health.

(It should be noted that I was going to go with something more like, My blood flows like a fucking river, but then I thought it might be too specific – because what if the lack of blood-flow was the result of a greater health issue? And so I figured that My body restores itself to its natural state of perfect health was a much better catch-all blanket affirmation, as opposed to the original, which would have probably just been the blood-flow affirmation version of a Band-Aid.)

And it totally worked! After a few minutes, I felt calmer and more relaxed, and I even started to bleed a little, which, in this case, was totally a win.

And so then I put an actual Band-Aid on my finger, and the whole thing ended up being a bit more anticlimactic than it would have been if I had never snapped myself out of my HOLY-SHIT-I’m-DYING spiral in the first place. Which, actually? Was a refreshing change of pace. I think maybe I’m going to try “not flipping out over small things” more often now.

Maybe.

(Although on second thought, is ingesting Windex really a “small thing”? OMG no, it’s huge. I totally underreacted.)

 

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My Home Needs Baby Proofing Like, Now

First of all, I might have a concussion. So if this post makes absolutely no sense at all, feel free to categorize it into “Posts Written While Nic was in a Delirious State,” and move on with your life.

Or actually, don’t do that. Because I feel like, on some level, that category could apply to everything I’ve ever written, and I’d rather not go down that road.

I’m just sick of living in a hazardous, potentially fatal environment.

Have I made it obvious yet that my apartment is trying to kill me?

It’s filled with these seemingly beautiful white cabinets throughout the kitchen and bathroom — but although they may appear to be harmless, they actually have nefarious intentions because I keep violently hitting my poor little fragile head on them and it’s destroying my life.

Sometimes I’m tempted to ask other people in my building if they have the same problem, but then I realize that they probably don’t leave their cabinets wide open, clumsily drop random items (pencils, blood pressure medication, toasters, etc.) on the floor, perform fast-paced Beyoncé-at-the-Super-Bowl-esque squat moves to pick them up, dramatically bounce back up while shouting “Wabah!” (to absolutely no one), and accidentally get slammed in the head with a sharp cabinet edge in the process.

This cabinet and Charles Manson actually have a lot in common.

This cabinet and Charles Manson actually have a lot in common.

The first time this happened I was like, “Eh, whatever.” And then the next time it happened I was like, “Dammit! This can’t be good for my already-failing mental health.” And then it happened again yesterday and I was like, “OH MY GOD I HAVE NO BRAIN CELLS!”

This drives me to eat, because my mind obviously starts to go down this weird, like, I-just-cheated-death-and-suffered-head-trauma -and-so-now-I-think-I-deserve-to-eat-an-entire-cheesecake road.

So if my cabinets aren’t trying to kill me, they’re at least trying to make me fat and forever alone (which is something I really don’t need help with, so maybe the joke here is actually on the cabinets for wasting their efforts on something that’s already taken care of… Wow, that almost makes me feel better about this whole situation – like on some very sad, sad level, I win).

(Actually, I don’t win. Because I’m still the one in this scenario who might have a concussion. Ugh. To quote Kim Kardashian, “Why me?” Oh my god, I’m quoting Kim Kardashian. I definitely have a concussion. And I’m generally losing my mind. GREAT. Also… I don’t know why this entire post is turning into one big parenthetical. What is going on and how do I make it stop?!)

Okay, I’m out of the parentheses. I think. I can’t really tell because of the whole loss of brain cells and losing my mind thing.

Anyways, adgshljhvcnugr…

 

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