Clown Shoes of a Smaller Size

I don’t think of myself as clumsy or awkward. Surprisingly, coordination is one of the few subjects in which I score pretty well. I cheerleaded for six years (something I’m humiliated by), played soccer for five, and dabbled my foot in gymnastics here and there. And I wear a size seven shoe, if that’s any testament to my daintiness.

Conversely, my mom once told me my demeanor was similar to that of “a bull in a china cabinet”—she’s so original—but I think her drugs were running low, and we all know first hand how irritable that can make a person. She’s also the same individual who said I can’t sing, so you can pretty much count her out as a grossly unreliable source.

And because you’re probably wondering what all this bullshit, I mean lead up, about my graceful and nimble manner is for; the answer is this: to soften the following sentences:

I broke my toe today. I broke my fragile little pinky toe on my right foot by slamming into a file-cart wheel with my poor, little, unknowing, sandaled toe. I then proceeded to scream, “OH FUCK!” in the middle of my office, as I crashed into the nearby cabinet before falling to the floor to hug myself and rock back and forth in the fetal position until the stars in my peripheral vision disappeared ten minutes later.