Iron in the sink

(Picture was taken on the 10th and unrelated to subject.)
Don't know who else in the world would put a plugged-in, turn-on iron standing up in the kitchen sink. Thanks to my boss, the back of my arm got burnt a little. I know better not to touch suspicious-looking stuff so I won't make her mad by messing things up. No one would expect an iron sitting in the sink would be turn-on and hot, right? With my guard let down, my arm came in contact with its edge briefly when I washed my hands. There was the initial sharp pain, but didn't feel anything until about 15 minutes later. The pain was enough to ask for ointment. She treated the wound with the same stuff from last time when I cut my finger, and patched it up with a big band-aid. She wasn't too pleased that I got hurt again so soon. Nonetheless, slightly freaked out. Yeah, she said I'm the only one using the band-aids and they are so old, they won't stick anymore. (And she wasn't kidding.) Instead of admitting the iron-in-the-sink was not normal, she implied that I'm the one at fault for not being smart enough.

(T_T)

Perfect example of my screwed-up sense of space. I don't know where my body ends.

Yes, if I had all my brain with me, I won't be working for her. And she knows it. People know my condition yet they still expect me to be normal. I wish I could be normal. I wish.

No I'm not mad. Sad? Yes I am. I've already given up on her. It's just a job. But I want, and need a better job.