Predictability

Staying home will do things to you. After an hour or so of bumbling through the same three pages, I realized I hadn't had coffee this morning. Poured the grounds, slapped the lid down, hit the button. Wandered around the kitchen aimlessly. Chose the same coffee mug I choose every day. Noticed a crack in the handle. Odd. Cautiously placed it back on the shelf and chose its twin mug. Began to ponder all the ways I could die arbitrarily, right then and there, in the kitchen. Not in a sad, or even real way. Just in a thorough way.

1. Mug cracks. Hot coffee scalds my hand, I drop the mug, I bend to pick up the larger shards, carelessly attracting smaller pieces of porcelain to the invisible wrinkles in my fingers. I rub my eye. My cornea splits. Eyeball begins to leak. I stumble backward, only to find myself dying slowly, from the large kitchen knife that found its way into the small of my back.

2. The same scenario, except I die from an eye infection instead.

3. This one's a little bit more fantastical. After pouring my coffee, I stared into the mug for awhile. Darkness. The feeling of doom engulfs the room. I stare too long, and before I know it, my face has descended into coffee hell. I am drowning in a sea of unfiltered grounds and hot water, the mermaid from the Starbucks logo cackling (she happens to have the voice of Ursula from The Little Mermaid), I surrender to my fate, close my eyes, and let my last involuntary breath leave me gurgling in a bubbling swamp of coffee.

4. Slip on the tile, crack my head on the kitchen counter.

5. As I'm pouring my coffee, I hear a noise at the front door. The sex offender who just moved down the street storms into the house. He's dressed like Lon from The Notebook, and he's holding a pistol. The kind from the 50s, that's really loud and round. In desperation, I throw my coffee at him and run upstairs, locking myself in my room. As I sit huddled in the corner of the room, clutching my only weapon — a very sharp pen — I pray that it's all a dream. The offender kicks down the door. Pathetically, I throw my pen at him and run to the balcony. We're only two stories up, and my only choice is to jump. I aim for the grassy area in front of my house. I hit the pathway instead.

A sex offender actually did just move down the street from us. So number five is pretty realistic, when you consider my circumstances. Needless to say, I've been very unproductive today. Maybe my imagination is punishing me, or something. I have coffee now, so I think things will get better. I think.