All the world’s a pin cushion, and all the men and women merely disasters waiting to happen.

When I was in high school, I used to cross stitch while watching TV with my mom. There were only the two of us since my sister was already away at college and dad worked out of town for 4 nights a week. My mom would always remind me not to use a corner of the couch as pin cushion as I might actually forget that I stuck a needle in there one day. I just nodded but continued doing it anyway. I reasoned that cross-stitching needles are blunt and I am not forgetful.

Boy, was I wrong.

One night, I saw my mom cleaning a fairly large scratch on her left thigh. You would think that the right combination of blood and guilt would make me learn my lesson.

I stopped cross stitching  in the living room, yes, but the lesson does not seem to be a long-term one. I still have this habit of leaving sharp things where people can accidentally have an encounter with them.

floor 1

floor 2

It’s a disease, perhaps? I should probably take care of those now instead of blogging.

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