An Account of the Time I Spilled Coffee on My Recently Acquired White Shirt: By a Witty, Dramatic, Anonymous, Pretentious, Man of Taste
By R Plachno Jr
This title doth mislead. A title akin to a short poem, albeit without brevity, with an essence of wishful thinking like many of our own names of religious origin. Verily, there is more "Faith" and "Hope" in a fictional fabrication than in reality's absurd misfortunes. Though the title insists that there was only one time I spilled coffee on a white shirt of recent acquisition, in actuality, there may (or may not) have been 5 or 6 such occurrences. I cannot recall every time this has happened to me specifically, as every episode is a heartbreaking event to a minor degree, and yet, not so traumatic as to remember forevermore. It is instead dramatic, and so yes, this will indeed be a writing of dramatic nature.
Within my past, there are a myriad of clumsy events per my carelessness. Ah yes, the "thoughtlessness" persists. A vacuum of space surrounding, and yet elusive to, a focusing mind; haunting those with a sense of task, purpose, and a need for accuracy. Many a woman disappointed, many a name forgotten, many a faux pas made worse by tears of grief in my life story; let us not speak of those, but instead of cruel and stubborn stains that only a proper laundry routine may repair.
The public awaits for those who wish to maintain any semblance of social and physical health. Inside of a tool and a weapon used for acceptance within a traditional society: a white button-up long sleeve shirt, you find yourself completing an exchange of goods at your local café. Behold! A paper vessel borne of chemically stained flora and a neglectable amount of insulating wax, capable of withholding liquids of scorching temperatures! As is, a liquid surface would remain bare to the elements. Each sip would put your dignified attire at risk! A likely impending disaster capable of destroying your social life depending on thine situation. Dost thou drink from the cup of chaos? Nay! Behold! A lid! Made from dragons slain by God Himself with but a stone thrown from the heavens! Consumer! You may suspect yourself a king! But nay! The proper method of installing such a priceless item was thoroughly ignored through an anxious consideration of time. Now is the hour of suffering! That mixture of tropical bean extract, and of heavenly milk that threatens your quality of digestion: It has made an oasis of imperfection upon your garment treated with colorless dye and created with dubious, perhaps, inhumane labor!
The fault? Perchance 'twas but a wild, uncivilized, movement born of an already tortured nervous system. Perchance 'twas the point of attachment from one end of the paper circumference to the other being directly under the lid's mouthpiece, encouraging an uprising from the disparity of its design. Drip! Drip! Despair doth spoke!
Perchance it is a day of ruinous heat. Your character bumbles about your local convenience store, looking for a tonic that not only refreshes your body temperature, but cures your insatiable fatigue. Yonder! Within the open refrigerator in which simply being nearby brings relief to your sweaty palms! There lies a bottle of cold-brewed promises. You hear their enchantments! Heavy eyelids and dreams of slumber no more! The cheerful and opportunistic cashier pays no heed to your dwindling awareness as you struggle to find exact change or more than a passive will to live. As you exit, the time becomes nigh as more than a few scratches from your fingernail accrue a breakthrough against the stubborn punctures of despair inlaid upon the packaging by miserable factory peasants. Freedom from life's cruel ailments comes to fruition. And then! The unthinkable! Like a fashion assassin from Poseidon himself, a small liquid stream from a hell of harsh discipline drips down along the twisting grooves of plastic ingenuity and onto your newly victimized attire. God has truly died and you must find meaning in life by your lonesome!
There are but two remedies for such afflictions. First! Hidden in shame within your vehicle, you disrobe from your garment into another, saving your self-image by sacrifice: revealing the carnal knowledge of your torso for several moments to the passing public. Verily, 'tis a barbaric choice. Second! The application of a hopefully stylish coat. A coat! A coat for a Child of God! May the sun, God's most vicious rival, have mercy upon your exhausted sweat glands!
Alas, I cannot end this document without the revelation of at least one of my own true experiences that bring pain and dishonour to my self-worth. Humbly, I ask of you not to repeat this tale to my peers, though I remain anonymous. They are a crude bunch who laugh at tales of inebriation and various forms of excrement. Miscreants they are! Why must I feel compelled to gain their approval!
Once upon a time, I had acquired a shirt of fancy dress that bore the signature of Kirkland. A fine shirt with buttons strewn about! The length of the sleeves! As if tailored to an awkward frame such as my own! And the almost blinding polyester brilliance! A specific luminescence only otherwise known to distant Arctic tundras! I felt the taste of true luxury that day. But life had been going well, too well, and I had grown complacent to the ongoing threat of timely accidents.
I am in my kitchen, a usual paradise of smells and taste. My mug of coffee, my debutante ball for a fresh new day, was held with a firm handshake of promising success. My left hand gripped my electric cellular phone with a fresh mind and yet, I'm in an impressionable haze. It had appeared that my friend and colleague, Sebastian Ferdinand the 5th, sent me a short whimsical film about the aqueducts of Rome, so I proceeded to open the archival document with my right index finger. How could I have forsaken the status of my most favorable hand?! Betrayal had been sent from my most trusted legion of appendages to the address of my now burning belly! Surely Kirkland rolled about his grave as his design was pilfired, disgraced, and my considerations lost elsewhere!
Mine roommate, Constable Denmark happened upon the situation immediately post-catastrophe and laughed from the depths of his stomach. He declared that should I have been born an octopus or a spider, that I may have bore any sort of grace. Reluctantly, he signed a written contract to never speak of this incident for a fee of four thousand shillings. May the public never discover that I too have bodily miscalculations.
Indeed, I am tortured by an imperfect world through high expectations. A caffeinated fumble can never be an article of libel if it is written by Murphy's Law. Yet, I cannot move forward without moments of serenity, and these situations will only grant me worthy rest if I periodically admit minor defeats. And mind you, defeat can only be measured within an abridged span of time. My hope is that during the ladder days of my lifespan, my successes outweigh the cost of my clumsy behavior.