Sing, O muse, the anger of the guy that just spilled coffee on himself, that brought countless ills upon his pants, and forced those within earshot to yearn for an end to his profanity and that mighty Achilles might show up and stab him randomly.
I have little patience for people who feel the need to broadcast their misfortune to all within earshot. Even brighter than my lack of patience, though, burns my confusion on why one would want to bring notice to his/her lack of dexterity. What may have originally been a collective sigh or nod of the head in a ‘Thank God that didn’t happen to me’ moment morphs into something darker. There was a very cold and black portion of my soul that wanted to walk up to this person, his world clearly in tatters because he’d spilled coffee on his most treasured pair of pleated khakis (PLEATED!! GAH!!), and throw what remained of my coffee onto his shirt that his ensemble might match.
I didn’t, of course. You see my point, though. If tragedy is what someone wants, followed by the sharing of said tragedy at high decibel levels, than isn’t it selfish of me to not help them? Should I not aid them in the attainment of their goal? Sure, my coffee was still hot and yes, #-degree burns may have resulted, but really, it’s such a small price to pay for assisting someone in the realization of their potential to be the loudest douchebag they can possibly be.
Or am I being too harsh?
In either case, I care too much for sweet delicious coffee to relegate it to being worn by such a person. So, I picked up a chair and threw it at him.
Sir @ November 21, 2008