I love glass. Beautiful, beautiful glass. I’m very nearly obsessed with it. But right now it’s out to get me.
Within the last two weeks, two glasses of ours shattered. I cut my foot on a piece of glass. My middlest cut HER foot on a piece of glass, which required Surgery By Daddy and my very best pair of tweezers. I cut my hand on a shattered jar under my bathroom sink. I never have glass under my bathroom sink. I nearly signed up for a glass blowing class, but since glass has my number, I abstained. My friend thought this was wise, since I’d probably manage to get liquid glass in my eyes.
And now? This. I was making voodoo cookies (a dry run for Killercon Convention this week!) and I heard an awful sound.
This is our patio door. I sigh. But nobody was hurt, and that’s what matters.
Thus far. It still needs to shatter out and slash me to death in my sleep. I wouldn’t be very surprised. There’s a story in here, somewhere.