The Art Of Falling Down Stairs

(My most graceful moments have happened in my Timberland’s. They’re like ballet slippers but for people who actually have to do stuff. Like carving trails through the woods or kicking some fool’s door in ’cause he hasn’t paid you back. It’s a versatile shoe.)

I’ve had my boots since the sixth grade which would make them a little over 10 years old. We’ve been through so much together. Good times like when we hiked through that old Native American trail and I would’ve slipped down this hill into a ravine if I didn’t have my trusty ‘ol Timb’s on.

Bad times like when my ex got arrested that one New Year’s Eve and I fell down a stripper pole (see story here).

I’m not much for believing in luck, but I reaallllyyy cannot figure out these shoes. If anything, they’re more like a rollercoaster of good and bad experiences that prove the great Karmic balance of the universe.

Like Thursday, for example: I woke up to find out one of my cousins died, but then I got to class and everyone loved my story so much, my teacher even convinced me to turn it into a novel (so that’s something I might be doing in the near future, just so everyone’s aware). I spent most of the day alone but then one of my best friends tells me he’s coming over and we’re gonna drink whiskey and tell tales of the sea. Needless to say, I’m totally stoked. Then as I’m gliding excitedly down the stairs to receive him at the door (that sounded dirty, but you know what I meant), I pull a full-on Scarlett O’Hara and tumble down the stairs.

If anyone reading this is a tumbler, I hit the halfway point of the stairs, started sliding, and then ended with a full birandi(sp?) (landing on my back instead of my feet).

Alessandro was upstairs chilling, all like:

The irony here is that about a year ago when we lived at our last apartment, the same friend who I fell down the stairs to see (running just isn’t fast enough), fell down those other stairs and literally broke his face. The ambulance came and I had to hold his head so he didn’t drown in his own blood, and then they put a metal plate in his face that makes all the metal detectors at government buildings start freaking out.

So, ‘ya know… silver linings and such. (There’s humor everywhere if you look hard enough.)

Anyways, back to me. Now I have what looks like a banana crossbred with a softball coming out of my leg and it hurts to type. If you know what getting the tar beaten out of you feels like, I’m totally there right now. And of course, Alessandro is once again too busy working to take care of his sad hobbled girlfriend.

(Side Note: some people have been asking why I don’t just wear my new Timberland’s instead. Well, I absolutely would, but when I was ordering them I wasn’t picturing myself wearing them but perhaps 50 Cent, and they came out a little flashier than I would have liked.)

So be careful out there, everybody! (And avoid all stairs if possible.)