After my initial trip on stair number three, I reached out for the moral support and comfort of the railing. This move would ultimately prove disastrous.

I am clumsy. I trip over my own feet and fall often. When conversing with girls, my tongue fails to work properly and my vocabulary becomes as limited as that of a caveman.

Oftentimes, I wonder if I am cursed or if there is an evil witch doctor who has it in for me. When every day of life is filled with one clumsy accident after the next, it becomes a challenge to discern the bad events from the most awful events.

But there have been a few choice incidents in 2005 in which my degree of self-humiliation has reached all time highs, proving that all new levels of mortification exist and are just waiting patiently for me to explore them.

One notably humiliating incident occurred in February. While running up the stairs in the Union one morning, my sense of equilibrium and balance negated themselves, resulting in a fall fitting of an Evel Knievel stunt gone horribly wrong. I have often pondered the possibility of the stairs in the Union possessing a mind of their own, capable of shifting their height and depth on unsuspecting sleepy-eyed students.

Or maybe I am incapable of properly existing in a 3-D environment. After my initial trip on stair number three, I reached out for the moral support and comfort of the railing. This move would ultimately prove disastrous.

Operating solely on instinct, I was reaching for a railing that was several feet beyond my grasp. My free hand was clutching at air. I was spiraling out of control and the sky was crashing down upon my head. I cried out in defeat, “Why do you hate me God? Why?”

My large cup of coffee exploded out of my hand. And with the sky turning a dazzling hue of brown magma, Hi-Fi Cafe coffee color, my body collapsed onto the cold cement stairs.

Now on all fours, I looked as though I was attempting to fuck the staircase doggie-style. Once the Earth’s gravitational force began to work its magic on my airborne coffee, it found its way onto my back and arm. Not only did I look like a madman trying to have sex with a staircase, it also appeared as though a colostomy bag had exploded under my shirt.

It took a moment to regain my composure. The voice of reason was yelling in my head, “Pull it together, pick up your things and limp away from the accident with a grin on your face. We’ll come back later tonight with a gallon of lighter fluid and a torch and burn these fucking stairs to the ground.”

I began to collect my belongings, which were strewn about over the stairs. At that moment, someone called out my name.

I looked up to meet the eyes of a girl I harbored a schoolgirl crush on. She was laughing to the point of tears. There will always be an audience present when you are at your lowest. But why did my audience have to include her?

This would ultimately have an adverse effect on my chances of dating this girl. In fact, I felt so defeated that later in the week, I dropped the class I was in with her.

Since then I have petitioned to have the staircase in the Union removed, but to no avail. I am contemplating calling upon a priest to perform an exorcism on the staircase over winter break.

Or maybe I will put together a torch-wielding mob and we will take matters into our own hands.

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