Charged- Not Quite Guilty

Everything I touch seems to acquire an accelerated sense of gravity, accompanied by a rushed hyperbolic motion. Objects fall with dramatic precision, often just outside my range of rescue. Especially the fragile ones that make enough noise to shatter any pretense of calm. Sometimes, defying the laws of physics and veering into the realm of the paranormal, these objects seem to have a sixth sense, as though they know exactly when I’m within a foot of disaster.

Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves—I’m not always this clumsy. No, I save my best performance for those moments that truly matter. Like when I attend big, very important meetings, where I am required to maintain a serious expression, complete with the obligatory eyebrow furrow. I speak in soft, authoritative tones and occasionally smile when clients fail to grasp even the simplest of presentations. Patience, of course, is my virtue when dealing with the dim-witted. In the middle of such moments, I manage to spill fine china cups onto cold, hard floors. Sometimes, I outdo myself by first spilling the contents onto tables covered with important drawings, while everyone watches in slow-motion horror. As this unfolds, I’m already mentally preparing my speech: what to mumble, what tragic expression to wear. I usually get away with it. Of course, I don’t stick around to see the aftermath, and I expertly avoid those people again. Which is why I rarely have recurring meetings. When I do, however, I’m typically offered plastic chairs and acrylic mugs. But don’t worry—I still manage to exude elegance. Always.

You will soon agree that I am not entirely at fault here. There have been numerous incidents that prove my innocence. Sometimes, when I am perfectly still, I can see coffee mugs slowly inching towards me before dramatically plummeting onto clean rugs. Poor mugs—shattering into pieces on the floor, breaking many hearts. I don’t even bother claiming innocence. The circumstantial evidence is just too overwhelming. I wouldn’t even be telling you this if I hadn’t witnessed it myself. I would have never believed you if you’d told me. But yes, not only have I seen this phenomenon with coffee mugs, but there have also been phones (usually across the table), wine glasses, and even little babies. Yes, babies. They are the worst. They feign innocence and purity, but don’t be fooled—there’s nothing virtuous about them. If you’ve raised one, you know exactly what I mean. They distract you with their daft antics, while you blissfully ignore the real threats around you. But not me. I keep my eyes wide open, constantly scanning for those tiny saboteurs, including the coffee mugs. The problem is, while I’m vigilant, I tend to overlook another suicidal item lurking nearby, and before I know it, that too is reduced to a thousand pieces, leaving my plans in a state of total disarray.