Deathtrap Sweet Deathtrap

So far today I have shaved, trimmed my nails and cut up vegetables (well, a vegetable) for dinner. All of which means that on no fewer than three occasions today I have held very sharp things close to my soft and vulnerable flesh. I never realised it before but my apartment is a deathtrap and my life frequently rests in my own palsied hands. Since I'm the sort of person who could impale himself on a chopstick this wasn't a happy revelation. My apartment is supposed to be a haven, my own personal panic room against the world. Instead when I come home I find the grim reaper sitting in my favourite armchair watching TV and eating my crisps. Which also explains why I never have any crisps.

Rugs to trip on, hard edges to bang, electrical appliances to fry me and over twenty different very sharp things. I tried to get rid of some of them on the theory that surely one bloody potential accident was enough. Then I contemplated shaving with a carving knife and reluctantly reprieved all of them. I suppose I could become like Howard Hughes (ask your parents) and live in a sterilized room while growing my hair and nails to ridiculous lengths. This would have the added advantage that people might think I'm an eccentric billionaire. Sadly though I must accept the fact that most people would see me as a poverty stricken nut case which is nowhere near as much fun although it's open to doubt how much fun Howard was having towards the end.

I honestly think my apartment is trying to kill me. Surely it cannot be simple clumsiness and incompetence on my part that brings me close to death (my parents can keep their opinions to themselves at this point). The crumbling bricks, and even more crumbling ceiling, obviously hide some malevolent spirit that plots against me. Alternatively they could just be hiding shoddy wiring. The method my apartment uses to bring about my demise is quite clever. It does nothing, it just sits back and waits for me to do something particularly stupid. Frankly I think it's onto a winner. Other people leap out of aeroplanes, race very fast cars or join the army to bring themselves close to death. All I have to do is get up in the morning. No doubt a more functional human being wouldn't see navigating from the bedroom to the shower as a death run but then a more functional human being wouldn't spend half his time talking to a blog.

So, what to do about the murderous proclivities of my apartment? I could move I suppose but since I would enter any new home carrying a kaleidoscopic assortment of sharp things, heavy things, pointy things and hard things I fail to see the point. I have considered coating every surface in bubble wrap but I think I would get so caught up popping all the bubbles that I might forget to leave for work. So I will continue as before and laugh in the face of (not really very much) danger. Hear me Reaper! I defy you! You can jog my hand as I shave and cough loudly while I chop vegetables but I will not yield. I laugh in your face Reaper, I fear you not. And keep your damn hands out of my crisps.