Cleaning with a side of tetanus

It was 2:30 a.m. and terribly sick, I was leaving my bathroom and headed to bed when the shower caught my eye. It’s shared by five girls and literally has not been cleaned once this entire year (Mom: if you’re reading this, I’m sorry and I love you).

A few nights ago, something in me snapped. I removed my slippers, rolled up my pajama pants and embarked on scrubbing down the entire thing. It was caked with mold of all colors, shapes and textures.

As I vigorously eliminated six months of accumulated scum off the glass door, in an upward motion I sliced open my hand on the metal shower handle. My minor injury was complicated by the fact that 14 different varieties of mold were streaming from the sponge down my hand.

After watching something orange with a tint of black seep into my open wound, I washed my hands like those kids in OCD documentaries and emptied a quarter bottle of Neosporin on the cut. Now my hand is probably hosting a family of parasites, but at least I won’t slip on the grime of the shower floor anymore.


Don’t get that low

As one would probably expect, the Bollywood Dance Night this weekend was abuzz with catchy Indian music, flying Dandhiya sticks and students frolicking around showing off Indian dance moves.

Not wanting to be left out of the ethnic excitement, I grabbed a friend and, clasping onto her unsuspecting hands, began spinning around at a formidable speed. After ample acceleration, the room lost focus and the Indian outfits became something of a blur.

After an exhilarating but also slightly nauseating run, I couldn’t hold on any longer and collapsed, hitting my head on the unforgiving floor. After the initial shock, bolt of pain and impending embarrassment, I realized I had taken down another innocent victim with me.

As his hands clutched his stomach in pain, he also smiled and I couldn’t help but laugh at my clumsiness against the backdrop of grace and eloquence.


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