I have a scar on my thumb from a peanut butter sandwich.
No, seriously, I do, and I don't mean that I have a scar from the knife I used to cut the bread, or that I dropped the jar of jam and cut my hand on a glass shard, or - okay, so I'm out of normal, reasonable, this-might-conceivably-happen-in-a-world-that-makes-sense ways to injure yourself making a PBJ.
I cut myself on the bread. Mind you, we had a nice, crusty loaf (to those of you who eat bread without the crust: how? why? are you extraterrestrials? please, please explain!) and I'm one of those people whom, if you hold their hands down and tell them to keep talking, will sort of stand there wobbling their elbows and making weird pigeon noises at you. I'm also pretty thoroughly paranoid; my moonlight career as a superhero, by which I mean paper-boy, involves about four hours a day of walking around a very hilly town and I opt out of listening to music because I can't stand to have my hearing impeded.
Anyway. Yes. Back to the subject. I'm kind of paranoid, perhaps unwarrantably so - or perhaps not, as we're about to see! Trusting in the innocuous nature of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I thought myself safe to converse with my grandfather while assembling the thing, especially as I had already sliced the bread. Long story short, I have precisely no idea what exactly I did, but I figure the mechanics of it must have been similar to those of a paper cut, or, rather, a cardboard cut, which, for the fortunately uninitiated, hurt less but* go deeper and bleed more.
Due to aforementioned hurting less, it took me long enough to realise what had happened that, when I looked down, half my sandwich was bright freaking red. Great, I thought, I have to make a new sandwich - so I did, being careful to keep my thumb out of it because, you know, it's just a little cut, from a sandwich, it won't bleed too much...
...so of course it did. I had to put a band-aid on it to stop it leaking carmine all over, and then I had to change the band-aid an hour later because it was soaked through. It kept bleeding sluggishly any time I used it for about a week. The scar's quite noticeable and about a quarter inch long; I probably ought to have gotten a stitch. I also probably ought to make up some tale of honour, victory and loss to explain how I came by such a memento, but quite frankly, I far prefer laughing at myself.
*Actually, because; standard-issue paper cuts hurt as much as they do because the skin of the human fingertip, the most frequent location for such a wound, is replete with nerve endings.
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