To the Girl Whose Glass of Wine I Knocked Over Tonight...

...at the Gotham Comedy Club:

Yes. I did it. I knocked over you glass of wine. I was crammed in that corner table, and you wouldn't move out of the aisle to let me by, and I tried to squeeze past carrying my coat, and, well, your glass of wine got knocked over. So I did what you do in these situations: I apologized profusely, and I quickly mopped it up with napkins, and hey, no harm done. The guy sitting at the table was unscathed, he was cool with it, just waved me off, no problem. And to make amends, since I've got this thing about personal accountability, I even caught the waitress on my way out and PAID for your glass of wine. At the Gotham Comedy Club, where a glass of water will run you four dollars, that means I shelled out eight bucks--no tip, sorry. I was leaving, and I didn't have to face you again, but I did it anyway. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Decent.

So why in the hell did you have to look at the spilled glass of wine like I'd just butchered a baby on your table? Your mouth literally hung open in shock. Your eyes were dinner plates. You looked at that spilled glass of wine like it was a crime against humanity, at me and my wine-spilling ways like I was an affront to God himself. The horror, you were implying, with every fiber of your being: the sheer fucking horror.

Honestly, drama queen: get over it.