The Burnt Finger Teacheth

When I was three, I touched the barbecue even though I was told it was hot and it would hurt. This is the first incident in which I can remember thinking about linguistics, for the pain seared the memory into my young mind. Barbecue, I reasoned, is a compound word made up of "Barbie" and the letter Q (to check out the etymology of the word barbecue, click here).

For some inexplicable reason, perhaps related to my fascination with the thing that was cooking our dinner, I desired to touch the side of the barbecue, and so I burned my finger and learned my lesson. This is not the first time that I got burnt, and it certainly wasn't to be the last.

A few contusions on my elbows and a small chunk missing out of the base of my back are part of the price I paid for wiping out, while foolishly tearing down the debris covered road to Minoo Falls. I was going too fast and rapidly approaching a sharp, blind corner, and then I ate it while attempting to break. Apparently, I tumbled violently enough to fling my glasses 20 feet away from where I hit the ground.

Luckily, God looks after fools like me, so I have been let off with just a few contusions and abrasions to show. I am sad to say that my Timberland backpack got a bit ripped up as I skidded across the pavement, but its sacrifice literally saved my ass from being torn into hamburger.

So from now on, there will be no more tearing down hills unless they are first deemed to be safe to myself and to others. I can't rightly say why I did it in the first place, especially after hearing about what happened to a student at my high school.

Apparently, last week one of the ichinensei was riding in the rain and lost control, hitting a wall with such force that he died of the injuries. I don't want to ever put anyone through the pain that his family must be feeling right now.