Karma

I didn’t vomit in a recycling bin on Friday like I thought I would, though I did subject my designated driver, the ever patient Beau, to a loud, torturous rendition of Elton John’s entire body of work.

Karma didn’t catch up with me until Sunday morning, when, presented with the house to myself, a pot of coffee, and an ANTM marathon, I got up to do some laundry and along the way caught my little toe on the leg of the coffee table and apparently broke it. Again. I did this in December 2006 when I was chasing my roommate’s dog and caught the same little toe on the leg of the futon [Tangent: this was the same evening of the Aftershock incident at Copperfield’s. I figured I’d just stubbed it really, really bad, so I went out to the bar hopping on one foot and drank myself retarded to deal with the pain. Then I did the Running Man with a man dressed as Santa].

So, in order to save my remaining nine toes from a similar fate, I will now formally apologize to people who don’t recycle for antagonizing them and the girl that puked at my subway stop for shaking my head at her. I’m very, very sorry for judging you harshly. I promise not to rant about environmental issues instead of confessing my horribly embarrassing and moderately amusing shenanigans ever again. Now that I’ve restored balance to the karmic universe, I will proceed to hobble around in flip-flops as penance instead of my adorable black peep toe pumps.