Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
At precisely 1:30 a.m., I made the kind of discovery no archaeologist dreams of: the third shard of glass embedded delicately into the bottom of my unsuspecting bare foot. I jumped back like a startled ballerina, teetering heroically on one leg as my hand, still half-asleep, began an impromptu but thorough survey of the immediate footscape—that oddly sacred region where pain flares with the full drama of a Greek tragedy.
Somewhere in the foggy hallways of my half-conscious brain, a small, responsible voice whispered, “Glass.” It knew, even in that dream-smeared hour, that this pain had pedigree. It was from that lamp—the one I had placed, with all the confidence of a structural engineer who skipped a few chapters, three inches from the edge of the bed earlier that week.
In my defense, I had paused and looked at it. Evaluated its balance. Calculated the time it would take to wipe down the nightstand and reclaim the lamp. But fate—or physics—had other plans. The lamp, in a display of dramatic flair, tipped and exploded in a symphony of broken light bulb shards that sounded like a watermelon-sized sun imploding.
I froze. Barefoot. Staring at the glimmering wreckage. Swore gently, but with conviction, at my newly uncovered brand of idiocy, and made my way to the kitchen to fetch the broom and dustpan like a remorseful raccoon caught in its own trap.
Sweep. Mop. Survey. The trinity of repentance. I considered the matter resolved. Case closed. Crime scene tidied.
Until—this morning. Case reopened. For the third time.
It was then I concluded, beyond reasonable doubt, that the shards from the bedside lamp had taken on a second life. Like stealthy ninja stars, they had eluded my broom-and-Swiffer combo with malicious glee. Somewhere, they had huddled in tiny glinting conspiracies, plotting their next ambush on my tender soles.
And there it was—my father’s age-old wisdom echoing like a ghost in the hardwood flooring: “The lazy man always works twice.” In my case, I was working thrice, at 1:30 a.m., bleeding slightly, questioning my life choices, and finally realizing: next time, just wear socks, or use a vacuum, scrub, and repeat, until the job is done right!
BB Grey--musings 
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