Now this is a weird one, I let all my rules on this writing go out the window today in favour of grocery shopping and a heightened level of internal rage. Like wall melting, fume igniting, teeth cracking rage—at the smallest of small. My nose was runny! People kept walking in front of me! I mean, come on, this is a grocery story at peak hours on the second of the month—the audacity of it all to happen to ME!
This is the sort of petty thinking I was trapped in after work. For some reason it felt like I didn’t even leave work, I was just suddenly in the deli, clutching a basket with a lone bottle of Old Spice body wash inside, frustrated there was no more barbecued chicken, despite the lofty claim of “guaranteed in stock.”
Maybe that’s the root of my anger; that chicken was to get the royal treatment and be lain upon a bed of arugula, some of that purple stuff, and more other things that are stringy (but tasty and healthy) and topped with plump lil’ strawberries and drizzled with lemon poppy seed dressing. Drizzled like a mother fucker. I was so excited for it, almost as excited I was for this “Mug Cake” that Ms. Crocker bestowed upon my home.
It was a caramel brownie that you bake in the microwave—you know, grown-up EZ-Bake type stuff. I had been saving it for a special moment, a moment that I would know by feel alone. My sweet tooth is far from what it used to be, and to want a caramel brownie would be a moment, not a plan, so the box of mix had been on my desk for days. Until last night, that is.
I placed it in the kitchen in the morning, knowing it might influence that sought-after moment that evening, and it most certainly did, but I had more pressing issues. I hadn’t seen my little poochie in weeks, and she was on the way over with my wife to spend some time together. After the two of them left, I was ready for a mug cake, but distracted by Instagram. In the few minutes I was sitting on my bed mindlessly scrolling, my roommate/landlord/mother slunked out of her room, sweet tooth a-throbbing…
Can you guess what happened?
Yeah, she ate my last fuckin’ mug cake. I think we may have found the source of my anger. Well, no, it wasn’t that, it was hanger. Spaghetti solved that little issue right quick.
See you tomorrow.
*pastes document from OneNote to Word*
*reads word count: 426*
WHAT THE HELL!?
Okay, full disclosure.
I was writing in bed on my iPad because with all that anger going around, I didn’t think it would be conducive to anything if I forced words out of me then. I unpacked the groceries, cleaned the kitchen, talked to mom, etc., etc., before playing guitar and entering the land where time does not reach. My fingers took a beating, one that reminded me of how thick my old callouses used to be, but with an eyeful of quarter to nine, I got the fingers moving on keys instead of strings.
It’s funny, before I started, I was switching over the laundry and I realized that I was physically uncomfortable with letting this hang anymore than I had to today. I have four days off and I need to look forward to maximizing my productivity in these days. There’re books to read, stories to plan, blogs to write. I’ve got a busy and rewarding weekend waiting for me, but I think if I structure it all correctly, I can actually do it all.