Tipsy

When circumstances conspire, I can become a very tipsy* girl.

Perhaps tipsy isn't exactly the right word. Tippy? Prone to tipping? One who tips? But tipsy I have chosen, and tipsy it shall remain, at least for the duration of this tale.

Generally, my tipsiness surfaces when I am handing awkward objects. One evening at school I crouched down, hefty backpack pulling on one shoulder, to retrieve a package of purchased pretzels from a vending machine when gravity exerted its 9.8 m/s/s rate of acceleration** on my lopsided frame, forcing me to topple fetally toward the wall. Yesterday I doubled over in pain, tipping toward the ground outside our house after stabbing myself in the ribs with the pointy corner of Ali's car door.*** Adding, well, injury to injury, moments ago I tipped sideways onto my pillows after hitting my head on the gabled ceiling of my room as I attempted to put sheets on my bed.

Perhaps it is time to acknowledge that I have a problem...

*You thought this was going to be about something else, didn't you...
**Oooh, numbers! Maybe I did learn something in Science A-30: The Atmosphere. Ask me about air parcels sometime.
***I don't really know how it happened. It was exceedingly stupid. It was also exceedingly painful. Unfortunately, I have no bruise to show for it, so no one will believe me (as far as pain goes, anyway; I'm sure everyone will believe the stupidity involved).