I hate these objects

Why do I hate this seemingly random collection of household trinkets you ask? Because last night, under cover of darkness, with malice aforethought, these "innocent" inanimate objects attempted to kill me.

They planned it out very well, too. Spreading themselves out in just such a way as to maximize the distance I would fall. It was the bubbles that started it. Grabbing my foot in the darkness, my upper body was propelled forward onto the toybox, whose lid was gaping open and ready to devour a chunk of my shin. The other foot, in its desperation to catch up to the rest of us, smashed into "Don't Break the Ice", sending its contents spilling loudly across the floor and biting into the sole of my foot with those sharp little ice cubes.

Then it was the turn of the ballet bar and the tray holder. They stayed near the back, as if trying to seem like bystanders, univolved with the abuse that was going on, but they jumped in soon enough. Through the blackness they lurched forward to take positions under my arms and chest, so as to prevent me from bracing myself for the inevitable impact on the hard concrete floor.

Evidently the toybox was so enamored of my left foot that it refused to release it, resulting in a feeling that is eerily reminiscent of the broken foot I suffered some years ago. At the end of the ordeal, all I could do was limp away to lick my wounds and find the Bactine and an Ace bandage. During my retreat, I'm sure I heard the light switch mocking me cruelly with a repeating refrain of "clumbsy dumbass, clumbsy dumbass...".

So to you, you pile of evil crap, I say "Fuck You". And to my kids I say, "Didn't I ask you to clean that stuff up when you were done playing?". And to myself I say, "Why didn't you just turn on the damn light when you went in there?". Life is full of small regrets, my friends.