Day Off

One of my favorite breakfasts require: two eggs, toast, cheese, and ketchup. On the stove, I do a magic trick where I turn the contaminated salmonella chicken period into solidified soul satisfying scrambleeeees. Then I sprinkle cheese until it melts, scoop it onto my plate and then squirt my ketchup and spread my toast. While I sit eating I decide what to do that day and/or the rest of my life.

Usually, I walk into town and buy an overpriced coffee and peruse the local bookstore judging novels and memoirs by the covers in a search of something inspiring enough to better my life. When this doesn’t happen, I go home and hit the can. The caffeine in coffee will give me a reason to live and be prosperous, but it will also encourage my digestive system to quietly escort the curds, whey and the ill-fated chick’s menstrual cycle out. I prefer to be home when this happens.

After the caffeine abruptly exits, I usually crash from the caffeine with either: uncontrollable tears, journal fuming, running in spandex, and/or most of the time, turning to Scott (if he is home) and asking him  “what am I doing with my life?” If he is not home, I list everything I want to accomplish before I die or before I have his children.