Paper cuts are a unique injury. And by “unique” I mean inconceivably painful and embarrassing. Because they’re tiny. Miniscule. Unnoticeable to the untrained eye. But dammit if they don’t hurt like a son of a gun.
And of course everyone was standing around when you yelped getting it. There was even one of those phenomenons where every conversation hit a lull at the same time making the room dead silent, only for the silence to be shattered by your schoolgirl cries. So when everyone comes rushing over to help you from the near death situation you just alerted them to, you have to bashfully explain that no, while the volume and tone of your shriek said “mortal wound,” in reality it’s a half inch long flesh scratch. Move along, nothing to see here.
There is a silver lining in this craptacualar situation though. Paper cuts don’t discriminate. It doesn’t matter if your skin is crusty and craggy or soft as a baby’s bottom, there’s a paper’s edge out there with your name on it. And it will find you.