Dear self, what is wrong with you?

I have a talent for hurting myself. A knack for accidents. A flair for disasters. Every day, I discover new ways to harm myself, usually in the kitchen. I slice my fingers instead of the fruits, I dunk them in boiling liquids, I smash my knees on the furniture… I’m a klutz, and it’s not amusing.

I think this book is about me, hah. I want this for Christmas, Santa, pretty please? Note, I don’t generate income from this link.

Just yesterday, I scorched my hand on a straightening iron that I assumed was faulty. I touched it like an idiot, and it hissed like a snake. Ouch!

I’m also a champion of public embarrassment. I stumble, I fumble, I blurt out things that make no sense. I drop things, I shatter things, I spill things. I can’t catch a bouquet, or a ball, or a break. IS IT REALLY ME?

Sometimes, I wish I could vanish into a hole when these things happen. But my mum taught me to laugh at myself, and not take life too seriously. She said I’m impulsive, and that’s why I get into trouble. She said I should think before I act, or speak. Thanks, mom. You’re so wise.

Now, I look at my fingers, and they look back at me with blisters. A painful reminder of how clumsy I am.