Pouting In Sweatpants

Sweatpants

Pouting in sweatpants
Is what I’m gonna do
I’ve got a broken ankle
In anger I shall stew.

Pouting in sweatpants
Not as fun as it sounds
Cuz I drop my crutches
Then I’m crying on the ground.

Pouting in sweatpants
Cuz everything’s a bore
And hobbling across the room
Is a huge f*cking chore.

Pouting in sweatpants
When I’m feeling a lil chubby
I haven’t washed my hair
And my socks are looking grubby.

Pouting in sweatpants
I really want to clean
But sitting here like a loaf
Is making me kinda mean.

Pouting in sweatpants
And I need a friggin drink
Forgot to get  groceries
And the boot is starting to stink.

Pouting in sweatpants
This bone better heal
Very friggin quickly
Cuz I can’t really deal.

Pouting in sweatpants
For now I think I’ll snooze
And for the love of Buddha
SOMEBODY BRING ME SOME BOOZE.

Grouchily yours,
KimmyTron

Kimmy The Klutz?

After tonight’s faceplant into a glass door, it was brought to my attention that I’m a wee bit accident prone. I object to this allegation. Sure, I trip on the sidewalk every now and then. I’ll fall on the stairs here and there. But am I really a big ‘ol klutz? Let’s examine the evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

Exhibit A

The above-referenced faceplant at Bevmo. I was minding my own business heading toward the exit and I approached the automatic door expecting it to open so I could glide gracefully through. Sadly, that did not happen. I yelped and everyone looked as I laughed like a maniac and scurried away.

Exhibit B

During my last Tough Mudder, I fell off the monkey bars and on the way down, cut my knee on a rock. Stupidly, I didn’t bother to check the wound and I was wearing skintight black compression pants so I didn’t notice any bleeding. Once I got back to the hotel several  hours  (and countless exposures to dirty Mudder water) later, I took off my pants and saw an alarming gaping hole across my kneecap. Luckily, it was just a small fracture and only took 6 stitches to seal up.

Exhibit C

I have an abysmal track record when it comes to cell phones. Back in 2006, I was waiting tables at the Pinot Grill and famously dropped my RAZR in the toilet during my night shift (hey, those aprons only had one giant pocket, and well, it’s just awkward trying to keep all your pens, wine key, receipts, and cell in there).  The following week I was in the same stall and my new purple RAZR ended up in the same toilet, but this time got flushed away to the ocean. I’m pretty sure that this stall is haunted by some asshole AT&T ghost that wanted to me switch from Verizon. These days I have an iPhone, but Siri has been dead since I dropped her on the sidewalk a month after I got the phone. Nicely played, AT&T apparition.

Exhibit D

My car. ‘Nuff said.

 

I realize that all evidence will lead you to conclude that yes, I am a klutz. But I implore you to consider other outside factors. Like alcohol. Like the fact that I’m horribly pigeon-toed. Like I never really learned how to park properly. Or run properly. Or hold a cell phone properly. Or write a blog properly.