a pattern

J grabs an apple off the counter-top. She takes it to the sink to wash it off. She turns on the faucet, accidentally full force, and the pan that was already occupying the sink guides a stream of angry kitchen water straight toward her sweater.
She takes a paper towel and wraps the apple inside. She walks into her bedroom, drying the apple as she goes. Once her door is closed, she walks toward the bathroom to toss the paper towel. She slips on a tiny pool of rainwater on the floor, causing her body to slam into the side of the bathroom door frame.
As she rubs her bruising hipbone with too-familiar mastery, her elbow grazes the blow-dryer sitting atop the counter. The blow-dryer threatens a fall but she catches it just in time. She throws the crumpled paper towel toward the rubbish bin, but it hits the wrong side of a stiff piece of protruding paper. It falls to the left of the rubbish bin.
J bends to pick it up with a swinging hand but misses. She swings her had at the paper towel again, catching it this time but hitting the blow-dryer once again.
The blow-dryer will not be stopped. It topples to the tile with an unpleasant sound, an inanimate laugh. J bends for the third time to retrieve it; only, when she tries to rise, her head is met with the wooden underside of a counter-top.

Welcome to the everyday clumsiness of someone with the exact same name as me.