I have glass in my big toe and no one to blame.
I suppose I could blame Snapple for not making their bottles shatterproof.
Or whoever paved the streets of San Francisco with asphalt instead of pillows and marshmallows that wouldn’t have shattered my Snapple bottle.
I could blame the checker at CVS for not insisting I put my hydration agents into a shopping bag so I didn’t have to juggle a bottle of smart water, a gallon of crystal geyser, and a bottle of mango madness Snapple.
I could blame my friend for suggesting the Snapple and making it sound so appealing, or for not noticing me stopping in the middle of the street and juggling the items so I could take my phone out and take a picture before the light changed.
I could blame the architects for designing the picturesque buildings in that alleyway, or the workers who built them, or the companies who supplied the building materials.
I could blame the Snapple bottle itself for perspiring and slipping out from under my arm and shattering against the pavement at my feet.
I could blame the asshole who’d stolen my phone and, on it, all of the pictures I’d taken of the city, making it crucial to take as many more as I could with my new phone, of everything I saw, which included those buildings down that alley at that precise moment.
Or I could blame myself for not being more careful with my phone in the first place, or for refusing the grocery bag, or for not asking my friend for help. I could blame myself for not taking into account the fact that I was precariously holding a perspiring glass bottle while trying to take a picture in the middle of the street.
Or I could just accept that I will never know my Snapple fact and that assigning blame won’t change the actuality that there is glass in my big toe.