OK. It's been almost 24 hours since this happened, and I think I'm ready to talk about it now. Bear with me -- I might break down at any point.

So yesterday I came home from work and decided to make a tuna sandwich. I opened a can of tuna over the sink, and proceded to drain out the water. You know what I'm talking about; you push the lid of the can down to squeeze the water out of the tuna. Well, I must have pressed way too hard, because the lid of the can suddenly bent in half, causing the tuna to quite literally explode out of the can. Instantly I found myself wearing half a can of tuna. There was tuna on the wall, tuna on the floor, tuna all over the clean dishes. But mostly there was tuna all over me.

My natural response was to go absolutely apeshit. I tore off my shirt and plunged it under the tap. (At this point, your mental image of me should switch to Walter Matthau, as he's my official nude stand-in.) I started screaming and swearing, and as I was doing such, Ca-chee walked in, home from work. As I cleaned up the mess, I was slamming things down and thowing things and cussing like mad. Every time I thought I had it all cleaned up, I'd find more. The last glob I found was on the top of my foot.

Finally, it was all cleaned up. Ca-chee just looked at me and said, "Well, at least you're a passionate person."

Fucken-A. From now on I'm buying that tuna that comes in a sack. That is, if I ever eat tuna again.
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