The Use and Abuse of Bullet Points

Last night, circa 1:30am:

• Come home from drinking up with the students.
• Enter apartment, feeling the siren call of the five-pint munchies.
• Dish up a bowl of cold pasta and yummy tomato-basil-pepper sauce.
• Leave the room, locking the door because the Czechs have infected you with their lock-everything-always paranoia.
  
• Go down the hall to the kitchen. Do the microwave thing.
• March back down the hall to room, gingerly holding the VERY HOT ceramic bowl.
• Fumble with keys in the entrance hall of your suite, feeling flesh sizzle from contact with the bowl.
• Does this one even need to be spelled out?
• Ok, ok: drop the motherfucking bowl of hot and tomato-covered fusilli.
• Ceramic pasta bomb! "OW! SHIT! FUCK!"
• Suddenly recall that you're standing directly next to the door to the probably-not-sleeping-anymore Suitemate of Silent Disapproval. The suitemate who always cleans the bathroom, and gets his ass to bed at 9:30.
• shit! fuck! ouch! in a hissing whisper.
• At the top of the hour: "The Dance of the Mildly Inebriated Mop-up Job," the lead single off your triumphant new album, Pratfalls of a Native-Speaker Teacher.

This afternoon, circa 4 pm:

• Sit around in the afternoon sun after hanging up the wet laundry.
  
• Notice the proverbial call of nature.
• Stride purposefully into the entrance hall, on the way to the bathroom.
• "OW! SHIT! FUCK!"
  
• Stand on one foot to gaze at the smallish but pointy shard of ceramic impaled in the ball of your foot.
• Remove the bloody shard. Little bastard.
  
• Hop back into the bedroom, one hand beneath your foot to catch the blood.
• Wow. That is some bright red blood there.
• Grab your washcloth; alternate between clamping it onto the wound and wiping up the drops that have spilled.
• Hey Einstein, your washcloth is yellow. That's gonna looks super when it dries.
  
• The bleeding's basically staunched. Hobble to the bathroom on one foot and a heel.
• Huh. When you put a bloody washcloth under hot water, the blood gives off a really nasty smell.
• Like rust getting cooked, really.
• Wonder to yourself if it's karmic retribution for your many sins against the Suitemate.
• Yeah, probably.
• Oh well.