Clutzy Clutzerton

I was assaulted by a closet door today. Vicious son of a bitch. No, really. It hammered me. Hard.

Like if I were ever to partake in a brawl, I can only dream that I may evoke such force on my arch nemesis.

There is hope, I suppose, seeing as it was my own strength that propelled it. A simple drop of a vest in the closet (on the floor because why would I ever take the time to hang anything) while turning my head to answer Kaya and simultaneously backing out, closing the door at the same time. Not rocket science. Not even a Fisher Price 3+ rocket. Sigh.

Then BAM. Closet door meet bridge of my nose. Like a crash test dummy meets the windshield. Poor crash test dummy. Poor me.

“SON OF A …” Screamed.

“Why you say sonofa mommy?” Questioned.

“son of  a …” Whispered amongst tears.

Tears are flowing, nose is growing, please no black eye I am hoping.

No black eye. Only red, swollen nose and a doozy of a headache. Oh, and then there’s that deflated ego.

Poor shriveled, shrunken ego.


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