Take two

I am thinking this column from my kitchen sink.

I am thinking this column from my kitchen sink, because if I crawl down from the counter to hunt for a pen and paper, I may lose my leg.

That is what happens in the real world.

But before I continue, I should probably make clear that while 99 percent of my Facebook friends (yes, that is how I measure life) are returning to college-that magical land of booze and books that supposedly prepares us for but is distinctly separate from reality-my feet remain firmly planted at home... inside a metal basin... next to this morning's dishes... and a questionable sponge.

I am spending my Fall semester on the other side of the pond, studying economics at the University College London, whose schedule allows me a few more weeks of summer. That's a few more weeks of up-close-and-personal one-on-one time with reality, which has held a grudge against me ever since I offended it two decades ago by being born.

Goody.

Now, I have nothing against reality, per se. I just do not know how to function in it, and although my two years at Duke so far were supposed to help me with that, in reality (that bitch again?) I think they've only softened me.

Take, for instance, approximately two hours ago when, arriving home from work absolutely famished, I discovered a Post-it note on the back door informing me that my parental units had taken my 4-year-old sister and abandoned me for a summer romp at Sesame Place, a Sesame Street-themed water park.

Standing in the middle of my dark, empty kitchen for an hour, with card in hand but nowhere to swipe (knife sharpener was a bad idea), the magic starts to fall apart.

In the end, I realized I would have to boil water, and that's how everything went wrong.

The process started out well. Water in pot. Pot on stove. Lid on top. Easy enough. I'm an adult. This is what adults do.

But then the water got hot, something that happens at least two-thirds of the time I boil water. I was taking a sip of juice as I reached with my bare hand for the lid's metal handle, and I remember thinking, just before my fingerprints were seared off, "Oh. This might hurt."

My yelps of pain were only upstaged by the juice spewing from my mouth, like some sort of fire hose trying to extinguish the scorching lid I had dropped conveniently onto my foot.

It was a perfect spit-take moment... and also a perfect spit-take moment that landed on my cat, who had come to investigate the racket. Curiosity might not have killed the cat, but it left him sticky and smelling of citrus. He was in shock.

Then he got over it and decided to savage my leg, which really was unfair as my leg was only an innocent bystander. (Of all my parts, my legs do the most standing in general.)

Enter kitchen sink into column. And column writer into kitchen sink.

When you're in a kitchen sink, as I am, there isn't much else to do but self-reflect, which is particularly unfortunate as when you're in a kitchen sink-because at 20 years old, you can't boil water and your cat can beat you up-life isn't exactly looking up.

I am halfway done with my college experience, and I am in no way ready to face reality or people or simple tasks, despite pledges via column last Spring that I'd make efforts to change that.

But maybe this study-abroad experience-the sort of opportunity you just don't get in the real world-is exactly what I need to prepare myself for life beyond the bubble.

So bring it on, London.

...Not you, kitty cat.

Lysa Chen is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Friday.