Y.D.I.T.Y

Ow.

I accidentally stepped on my pincushion.

There were only supposed to be straight pins in it, but apparently there was one needle.

It went halfway through my foot and wedged itself into one of the tendons in the arch.

Sucks, huh?

There weren't supposed to be any damn needles in that cushion, but there was. Now, who's fault is that?

The cushion itself wasn't supposed to be on the floor, but it was. Who's fault was THAT?

Mine. Mine. Always mine.

If you live by yourself, you are to blame for everything. That tends to turn an unflattering light on how often you personally fuck up.

I've started counting. It's a lot.

If the toast burns? Me.
If the plants die? Me.

If the turtle pen is left open and a Racoon falls in and panics because it doesn't know how to get out? Me.

If the grass gets too long? Me!

And, if a needle is left in the pincushion, and the cushion is left on the floor, and said needle lodges itself in your foot,

Who is the one that has to step up with a pair of pliers and get that sonofagun out?

...me.