smirkingatyou

I haven't been feeling well lately. Work ended early Friday, so I went home and slept for a few hours. Around 10 PM, I was wide awake. I didn't feel like going to a smoky bar, so I decided to stay in and clean. I'd made some progress, so I decided to reward myself with a cold, refreshing beer. To my disappointment, the beer was not as cold and refreshing as I'd hoped. I contemplated this. I keep beer in the minifridge I've had since college. It has always performed it's duties well, so a single semi-chilled beer was enough to catch my attention. Upon inspection, I found that the fridge door was not making a proper seal. I quickly discovered that the cause was the relatively large accumulation of ice and frost I have chosen to ignore for God-knows-how-long.




I then set my energies to the new task of de-icing the minifridge. I didn't feel like unplugging the fridge and waiting for the ice to melt. I decided to be more proactive. My plan was to chip away the bulk of the ice. One might think, as I did, that this was to be a necessary but banal endeavor. Recognizing that a large quantity of ice was to be removed, I chose my de-icing tool according to my needs . . . specifically, something that could be used to both chop and stab. The beer can is provided for scale.



The plan worked well until it spontaneously didn't.

During one of the "stabbing" sessions, a barrier containing a pressurized gas was breached resulting immediately in a deceptively benign-sounding hissing noise followed very quickly by a pain in my left index finger caused by a freezing burn. In a period of time best measured in parts of seconds, my concern over the state of my fridge and finger was overshadowed by my concern over what industrial chemical was just sprayed into my face.

After washing my face, checking my vision, and determining if my heart was beating appropriately (under the given circumstances) I decided that I probably wasn't going to die. However, I wanted confirmation. I then began to call a series of people (including various level-headed and knowledgeable types) in part to relate the story and in part to get any advice they might have to offer. Everyone seemed to be in agreement on the following:
1. weird shit happens to me
2. I was probably OK.

This, however, wasn't enough for me, so, after a brief internet search on common chemicals used in refridgeration, I called poison control. (I believe in being thorough.)

I am now confident that I'll be fine. However, I'm afraid my fridge is fucked.