Gravity, You Petty Bastard

It begins with a spoon.
Not a boulder, not a comet—
a spoon.

And suddenly, you’re trapped in some slapstick dystopia,
where everything you touch
leaps from your hands
like suicidal lemmings on a farewell tour.

You used to drop things.
Everyone drops things.
But now?
Now, it’s different.
Now, objects betray you mid-handoff,
as if conspiring with the floor in some underground rebellion.

And the floor—
the floor has become an enemy.
A distant, hostile country with strict visa requirements.
Every retrieval mission feels like deep-sea diving
without the oxygen tank.
Except the ocean is your kitchen,
and the spoon at the bottom is laughing at you.

Stress?
Stress doesn’t help.
Stress is that guy at the bar—
buys you a drink, trauma-dumps his divorce,
and somehow follows you home.
It grabs your hand,
makes it shake.
The cup tilts.
Coffee meets shirt.
Congrats, you’re now part of a Jackson Pollock original.

And posture—
what a traitorous little bastard.
You’ve twisted yourself into a human game of Jenga,
stacking hope between vertebrae.
Every time you bend, your back whispers,
“Are you sure about this?”

Pain doesn’t care.
Pain is a landlord,
collecting rent no matter how often
you beg for a payment plan.

Then there’s your brain.
Your smug little saboteur.
Always whispering:
“Hey, don’t drop that.”
And, like clockwork, you drop it.

Because your brain isn’t your ally.
It’s that coworker who starts their emails with,
“Per my last message…”

And gravity?
Gravity, you petty bastard.
Sitting back, eating popcorn,
watching the chaos,
sending little postcards from Isaac Newton:
"Still here, loser."

Fatigue?
Fatigue is the MVP of entropy.
Your muscles stage a walkout,
your focus melts like cheap ice cream.
The world becomes a slippery stage,
and you—
the tragicomic star of the show—
keep auditioning for a role
no one wants and everyone gets.

So, what now?

You could fight back.
Sure.
Grip exercises.
Reorganize your life so nothing’s above knee height.
Invest in one of those grabber tools,
because bending down is now an extreme sport.
See a specialist who’ll frown,
scribble notes, mutter, “Hmm, interesting…”
like you’re a lab rat in an existential experiment.
All so you can pretend this isn’t the new normal.

Or—

You could embrace it.

Become the person who drops things.
The butterfingers. The fumbler.
Turn every spill into performance art.
Take a bow. Accept the applause.

Because if gravity insists on pulling the strings,
remember the spoon.

It’s never the big things.
It’s the small ones—
the spoons, the cups, the keys.
Tiny mutinies against control.

They remind you what it means to be alive,
to feel the pull of the world,
to fumble, to fall.
And to rise—again and again.

So laugh.
Laugh loud.
Laugh long.

And when gravity, that petty bastard, grins—
when it snatches the spoon from your fingers
like some smug cosmic pickpocket—

Let it.

Watch it tumble,
hear it clatter,
see it spin like a doomed little satellite.

Then pick it up.

Again.
And again.

Because that’s the game.
And you?
You’re still playing.

FSF