Cleaning up the kitchen last night, I broke a wine glass. Trying to catch it, I cut my wrist on a shard. I pulled the piece out and, before I could determine the severity of the cut, decided that this was to be my inglorious end. Home alone, except for Jamaica and Angel, I worried that it would look like a clumsy suicide. How undignified.
Turns out to be a superficial wound. A perfunctory concern.
I don't know whether to stop drinking, move to plastic cups or join a commune.