Sorry KK but I never used your wok or your garlic paste that you gave me before you moved to New York. You must already know this because revenge has been served. I had the wok on my floor, near the door so I wouldn’t forget to take it, and several other items, to Goodwill. Everybody knows that anything you want to remember you put near your doorway. At 11something pm, fifteen minutes into the dramatic suicidal tale in “Taste of Cherry” I decided to get up and grab a little something from the kitchen (beer) on the way back I slammed my foot into the wok on the floor. It hurt in that mutherFerIjuststubbedMyToe kind of way. I danced around for a second or two before I sat back on the couch holding my be beer in one hand and my wok-ed foot in the other. It wasn’t until I let go to concentrate on my beverage that I saw the blood. Covered, dripping, totally bogusly gross. I glanced at the wok to couch pathway and saw the trail of blood. The wok had nearly severed my little toe off. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. I held a towel around my foot for fifteen minutes and took a peek and ended up slipping around in a pool of my footblood on the bathroom tile. It’s very hard to nearly bleed to death on your own because you want to live, you want to fight for your life but you keep thinking, “if I live I am going to have to get the blood stains out of my couch and carpet.“ I don’t know exactly when the bleeding stopped because after about an hour and a half (I finished my beer and the movie) I got tired of applying pressure and just passed out leaving my fate to the gods of coagulation. I woke up to a bloody towel and a painful, crusty baby toe. I’m finding out that you really need your little toe for balance but you don’t need a wok to cook vegetables. I still haven’t gone to goodwill but I put the soon-to-be-donated items in the trunk of my car.