Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Quack, Crunch

I break things. It's always an accident, and this never helps. In fact, it just makes it worse. My occasionally wide path of intermittent destruction is not even the result of anger or purpose. It is the result of chance and circumstance.

But of all the things I've broken (predictably, chairs) or knocked over (small humans), by far the most random has been belts.

Now I know what you're thinking, that I comically have a large meal and the belt just explodes, covering my surroundings in a circumference of splintered leather and humiliation.

But no. I have broken no fewer than four belts by simply stepping on them when I take my pants off. Clunk. "Wha? What was that? DAMN IT NOT AGAIN!" And then I save the broken belts. Because the buckle may be be cracked or broken, but the leather is still good. I think I'm saving them for when I start shooting up Velveeta and need a tourniquet. Or else for when I am forced to use them as lashings on my escape raft. I am a naive duckling cartoon.

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