You know when you're surprised you're not dead?
I'm not talking angst and emotional duress-dead, I'm talking when your coords go to the Maldives for a holiday and you start slamming fingers by mistake/tripping over the cordless phone/become a hazard even when you're sober?
And you're surprised you're not dead – because the ladder you walked into with the 5 kilogramme barrel of blue paint on the top didn't fall down and kill you?
Yesterday, holy Jesus.
1)I toasted my tits. The griddle marks have disappeared thanks to the guys over at Camphor Cream Inc. Making myself a snakwich for lunch, minding my own business, whistling Alison Moyet's Is This Love? at reasonable frequency, and the snakwich fell – heated and ready to toast – onto my bosoms. The bloody machine sits on top of the microwave and is at the same level - unwittingly - as my shoulders. It slammed down as I hoisted my cheese zarm into it. And slapped down on my boobies.
Yeah, a sizzlingly ouchy experience.
2)I got engaged. That was an accident. Luckily it was a fake engagement. Right?
3)I knocked half my shower gels off the side of the bath and they came clattering down on top of me – the big bottle half-winding me in the stomach.
4)On moving a book shelf, I crushed my toes under it and simultaneously was finger-slammed by the cascading lava lamp.
5)I saw some of my guy mates in dribs and drabs last night. What would've been accident prone was to kiss the one of them. We've already had a double napover in the last month, so actually – I was sensible. And didn't lunge. Because that just would've been disastrous, if I ran, again. I can't take the risk until I know I won't run for sure.
6)Asking two very stupid, stupid things and feeling like a right tit afterwards. A real koekemoer, who should just hide in the jungle forever and eat vines and co-habit with gorillas and stuff. Like Diane Fossey. Wait, she goes nuts at the end of Gorillas In the Mist. Whatever, even that sounds great.
Not too bad for a day's work really.
I'm not the only one who is accident prone. My mate Robbie went to a 21st a few years ago as the wrong Robbie.
He kind of knew the person and was like, “oh bless, I cracked an invite – sure I'll go.” And he pitched, but half the people wondered who this random punter Robbie was. When they were clearly expecting someone else.
That is taking accident prone to the next level. That's fine tuning it into an art.
Crappola. Shouldn't have had that [divine, it tastes so good on my lips, juicy, warm, comforting] bottle of merlot last night.