A Spill Too Far

Barnaby woke with a singular, resolute thought: today would be a day of impeccable grace. No more tripping over his own feet. No more impromptu modern dance performances with inanimate objects. Especially not before coffee. He padded (or rather, stomped) to the kitchen, visualizing a serene pour, a perfect swirl of milk, a dignified sip.

He reached for the mug. His elbow, apparently operating on an independent neural network, connected squarely with the coffee maker, sending a fresh pot of dark roast into a slow-motion arc. Barnaby, with the reflexes of a particularly slow-moving sloth, tried to intercept. This resulted in him batting the airborne pot towards the sugar bowl, which, in a moment of sugary rebellion, exploded into a cloud of white granules.

Now covered in coffee droplets and glistening with sugar, Barnaby slipped on a rogue coffee bean, performing an unplanned pirouette that ended with his backside making an intimate acquaintance with the linoleum. The milk carton, having watched the entire spectacle unfold from the fridge door, decided to make its own dramatic exit, tumbling onto the floor and contributing a milky tidal wave to the growing kitchen disaster. His cat, Chairman Meow, perched on a counter, slowly blinked. It was a blink that screamed, "I told you so." Barnaby sighed, a milky, sugary, coffee-stained sigh, and wondered if he could just go back to bed and restart the entire concept of "today."