Yesterday morning I woke up early (at 6:30; and yes, thirty-five minutes before I’m supposed to leave the apartment does count as “early”) and decided that I’d make myself some tea for the commute. I’ve decided that I like tea quite a bit these days, and to compliment Nicole’s purchase of a new teapot, I spent twelve dollars on a snazzy red to-go mug. I’ve also been trying to ward-off a cold, and I thought some nice herbal tea would be great to have while riding the stupid bus to stupid work.
So I heated up some water and made my tea and let it brew while I hurried around my room getting dressed (because, yeah, waking up thirty-five minutes before I’m supposed to leave the apartment still doesn’t give me a lot of time to do stuff). I got everything together, grabbed my mug, and head out the door.
Perhaps in my rush I didn’t realize that I did not wait an adequate amount of time for the tea to cool from boiling to barely-tolerable-for-drinking, because when I turned the corner on Diversey I took a sip of tea. And it was so hot that I couldn’t even hold it in my mouth.
I rapidly glanced around in the immediate vicinity to see if anyone was there, even though it really didn’t matter at that point. I leaned over, opened my mouth, and spit the tea on the sidewalk. I didn’t even spit it out, really; it just kind of ran out of my mouth.
I would somehow turn this story into some kind of metaphor for my life, but I think you get the idea.
My mouth still hurts.