Date: April 29, 2025

Author: Riley Thompson

I don’t remember exactly how old I was—maybe around ten—but I do remember what inspired the chaos: the show The Floor Is Lava. After binge-watching a few episodes, I was absolutely convinced I could be a contestant. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t.

So there I was, home alone in my little world of imaginary danger, where the floor was molten lava and every piece of furniture was a sacred safe zone. I had mapped out my course like a pro: couch, ottoman, barstool, then the big finish—leaping onto the kitchen counter like a true lava ninja.

First attempt? Total fail. I missed the counter by a few inches and landed back on the “lava.” Obviously, by the sacred rules of the game, that meant I had to restart.

Attempt number two? Oh, I made it… but with a price.

I launched myself with full cartoon-character energy and landed chest-first on the counter—triumph for a split second—until my momentum carried my head smack into the cabinet door above. There was a sickening thunk, stars, confusion… and then warm blood. Everywhere.

Cut to me at the ER, explaining to the nurse that I’d injured myself playing a game where imaginary lava was trying to kill me. Six stitches later and a lecture from every adult in a 10-mile radius, I was officially retired from the Floor Is Lava league.

I still have the scar. And yeah, I still play the game in my head sometimes—but now I leave the countertop stunts to the actual Netflix contestants.