You know who you are. It’s the middle of the night and the next thing I know, BAM – I’ve wandered directly into you. I always apologize profusely, but I just feel like it isn’t enough. So here it is; all my cards laid bare on the table – an open letter of apology to all the inanimate objects I’ve bumped into so far:
1. To the chair in between my bedroom and the kitchen:
Hello darkness, my old friend. I always think I’m going to be able to make it from my bedroom into the kitchen without bumping into you, sagging armchair. How could I possibly not know every inch of this extremely short walk I repeat every night to make sure I turned off the stove? And yet there you are, waiting, like an old friend, and all I bring to you is pain and a screamed expletive every night. I’m sorry.
2. To the tree I walked into while talking on the phone:
I’m sorry. For you have been here far longer than I, and do not deserve to be walked into headfirst by a 25-year-old woman who doesn’t even know what Netflix series she wants to binge watch next. Also, full confession: I wasn’t talking on the phone… I was playing Age Of Zombies while I walked. I’m sorry for lying to you too, tree.
3. To the piece of priceless art I knocked off the wall at the Met:
That was 100% my bad. You were just hanging there, representing 400 years of human history and artistic evolution, and I carelessly careened into you, destroying years of painstaking work and maintenance.
You may be able to put a price on antiquated works of art (which they have, and let me tell you, it’s a lot, I definitely can’t pay for it, and building a new life on the LAM in Bogotá isn’t as much fun as it seems, but that’s a story for another time), but you can’t put a price on politeness and accountability, which is why I’m apologizing to you.
4. To the Westboro Baptist poster I bumped into:
I may have subconsciously taken my anger out on you by obliviously sideswiping you with my car, and I’m sorry. I was trying to lightly run over the person holding you, and unfortunately, you got caught up in my attempt to maim them. That was never my intent. For you are just a simple piece of cardboard, blowing in the wind, without intent or allegiance. I am sorry you’re now bloodstained, and crumply, too.
5. To the lever of the crane I knocked with my elbow:
If you hate me forever, I understand. But at least you can sleep at night knowing that you didn’t kill all those people; I did. For you do not have free will, and could not possibly have forced that lever yourself. If it were up to you, I’m sure you wouldn’t have unleashed three tons of rebar on that giant group of men, women and children, but mostly children.
“It takes a lot of effort to move a crane handle,” you might be saying. “Also, you had to move like three other levers to even unlock it in the first place.” You wouldn’t be wrong. I’m sorry I’m a klutz.
6. To my father:
I can’t pretend anymore. It wasn’t an accident. You know what you did.