Why is gravity mad at me? Whyyyy?

I arrive home with McDonald's in hand. I set everything down at my desk, hoping to get caught up on e-mail and such whilst I eat.

In a matter of moments, I watch the large cup full of Sprite tip over and upend itself. It saturates the following:

1) My socks. Changeable.
2) The beige carpet. More or less soppable.
3) The keyboard. Utterly hosed. Fuckbutter bacon bits.

After aforementioned sock-changing and carpet-blotting, swapping out the keyboard for the spare that we have lying around, and much creative and heart-felt cussing, I settle in to enjoy my meal.

It's at this point that I hear a "thump*, followed by an "Oh, shit," from rafaela at the dining table.

Apparently, the glass prep dish on said table had made a break for it. The dish survived nicely. The contents of the dish—i.e. the ketchup she had been dipping her fries in—was not so lucky. Did I mention that the carpet was beige?

So, yeah, it's looking like a steam cleaner rental in our future. Because now, in addition to the mud, grape soda, cat barf, sweet and sour sauce, and all the other stains we must contend with, we have these. Oh, and tears. Many, many tears.