Who's Afraid of the Clumsy-Wolf

It's 2009 already. I'm twenty one years old. I've got to stop pretending I'm not a clumsy nutcase.
Swaying when I stand up is normal. Falling over my own feet is normal. Knocking over the edge of the rolled taco tray so that the mini plastic pot of red hot sauce makes a beeline for my t-shirt (with the addition of some stray splashes dotting my favorite trousers, followed by a burning sensation as the spiciness sneaks its way through them to my skin underneath) is normal. Somehow losing my grip on toast i've just spread jam onto and watching it, in jeeringly slow motion, fall to the floor face down with a soft slam - these are things I must accept.
I write notes to myself on my hands routinely with sharpie. And so seeing myself in the mirror, long after i've been reading with my hands supporting my head, I hardly wince at the recognition that my face has met with the same fate as my hand when I attacked it with sharpie earlier. I wipe it. Most of it remains. I give up.

With dawning realization, I figure out that none of this matters. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince will be released in exactly one week, and I'm in the middle of re-reading every one of the books that made me a geek. That fix it ticket? Later. That address change? Later. Linner-time? Well... now.
But everything else: later, and take me to Hogwarts via glorious paper and ink as my clumsiness fades away.