Alright so there have been a few developments over the past week in my life in Paris. And I’ve concluded that the city, or mainly my apartment building, is trying to kill me.
Here’s what happened.
First incident: A few days ago I was trapped in a very small elevator. With two men. With suitcases. This is actually one of my biggest fears, considering I was trapped in an elevator when I was young. To make it worse, the two men started jumping up and down to get it going again. I thought I was going to throw up. On them.
Second incident: Yesterday I went to plug my phone in to charge. The French part of the converter got stuck in the wall and the American part of the converter came out of the wall. So, when I went to reattach the two, my finger got caught in between them and I got a “good morning Megan” shock to wake me up. Couldn’t feel my finger for a bit.
Third incident: Today, I went to zip up my boots as I was walking out the door to pick up A at school. In the process of zipping, the zipper got stuck so I yanked on it to zip up. This is when my thumb got caught in the middle of the zipper and I ended up zipping up my thumb, which immediately began gushing blood.
Fourth incident: This afternoon after ironing A’s clothes I went to pick up the iron to set it down to cool off. I ended up touching a hot metal part on the side of it and burning my palm.
So there you have it. Within less than a week, France has tried to kill me four times.
I think I might be experiencing some Final Destination events.
The Wandering Sunflower 