The Excruciation of Typing

Okay, okay, I take it back, it's not excruciating. But it hurts.
My friends and I have this game we play- we pile all our hands on top of each other and the person on the bottom has to pull their hand out and slap the hand of the person on top. Then the next person goes, etc.... It sounds all fun and good, but the thing about my friends is, they slap hard. Well, so do I, but that's beside the point. So we were playing this game, (in this case only two of us,) and I lifted my hand to slam it down on his. Before I did, another friend told me that if I licked my hand it would hurt him more, so I slobbered across my palm and slapped it down with all the strength my arm could muster at the moment. He yelped in pain, (although he wouldn't be particularly happy if he knew I called it yelping.) Now, this was all a part of the game, so his pain wasn't my problem. (Sarcasm.) The problem was that as he yelped in pain, so did I. The very tips of my first two fingers had come into contact with the table as hard as my palm had hit the back of my friend's hand, but since the table is much harder than the back of his hand, I thought surely my fingers hurt more than his hand did. I had to quit the game because those two fingers were aching with an ache I hope never to have to encounter again. I wished I'd at least cut off the nerve endings so I couldn't feel it. Numbness sounded blissful.
Now at this point, you're probably thinking, "Yeah, right, your fingers couldn't have hurt that bad," and I think you're right. But it did hurt! It was one of those hurts that seems to linger in the background and bother you and bother you and bother you until you freeze the place to numbness. So I stole his milk because it was cold and put my fingers on the outside of it until they were relatively numb.
As soon as I got home, I injured my fingers again.
I had seen a jar of pickles and desperately wanted some. Of course, my fingers do not usually erupt in pain at the slightest pressure, so I thought nothing of them as I picked up the jar and began to pry it open. But it wouldn't open. I twisted the lid harder. I put all my fingers firmly around the jar and twisted harder than I had yet, expecting the jar to pop open at any moment. The jar didn't pop. But I felt like the arteries in my fingers did. I cried out in pain and almost sucked on my fingers, but decided against it. My little sister hopped up and ran over to see what was wrong. Now, if you ever have to ask your little sister, who's four years younger than you, to open a jar of pickles because your fingers hurt, you probably know how I felt. I folded my throbbing fingers in front of me and looked at her imploringly, imagining how hard she was going to have to fight not to laugh at me. "I can't open it," I said in mock sorrow, "And I really want a pickle." I opened my eyes wide and hoped they sparkled the way Puss's did in Shrek. She just laughed and opened the jar. I ate my pickles.
My next challenge was the piano. I sat down to play the song I'm currently learning, but the first key I played was played with one of my afflicted fingers. I hope you never have to see a fifteen-year-old homeschooler playing the piano with pained noises every other beat, because it rather ruins the effect of the song. Or, rather, I hope you do, because it must have been quite entertaining; I just hope the person playing the piano feels the same way.
Last, I sat down to type this post. It's one of the longer ones, so I hope you're grateful. ... :) And when I look at the tips of my poor, swollen fingers, they are purple. Usually purple is my favorite color. Right now, not so much.
I hope it was entertaining to listen to stories of my pain. At least then someone could benefit from it.