I had just finished scrubbing my balcony with a cleaning agent so potent it probably required a permit. Naturally, when my housemate Sharmista mentioned she’d left a bowl of popcorn for me in the kitchen, I dove in with both hands—completely forgetting to wash them first.
One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.
A searing, localized burn spread across my tongue. My heart hammered. I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve seasoned my snack with industrial toxins. I bolted for the bathroom, frantically rinsing my mouth over and over, bracing for the inevitable call to Poison Control and a very embarrassing hospital admission.
Eventually, the "chemical" fire subsided. I crawled into bed, relieved to have survived my own negligence, though certain I’d scorched my internal organs.
The next morning, I bumped into Sharmista in the kitchen.
"Did you enjoy the chili popcorn I made?" she asked with a grin. "That spice really gives it a kick, doesn't it?"
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