Things My Brain Has Resembled This Week:
- Mashed potatoes. But not the kind of mashed potatoes that your aunt makes on Thanksgiving. The kind that are carefully selected, lovingly peeled, boiled, and mashed, then laden with butter, milk, cream cheese (shhh, family secret), and pure joy. More like the sort of mashed potatoes that started as dehydrated flakes in a box, and then you added a little too much water, because you don’t have butter or milk, and now they’re sort of a sad, insipid soup paste.
- A bowl of that one flavor of pudding that nobody likes so the store puts it on sale, 10/$1, and you know you're not going to like it but you buy it anyways… because it's only $1. Now you’re stuck with one batch of cooked, probably Lemon or some other Citrus-type flavor, pudding and nine unopened boxes just staring at you sullenly every time you open the pantry, and you don’t know exactly where to go from here.
- This blob fish:
- The puddle that's still on the corner three days after the last rain storm, even though it’s been unusually warm for so early in the season, and every other puddle has evaporated. This one’s starting to look all murky and you're pretty sure if you stepped into it your leg would be swallowed up by a hellish, subterranean netherworld, so you make sure that both you and your small dog step very carefully around it every morning on your way to the office.
- The aftermath of an underwater fistfight between a grizzly bear and a giant squid.
- That jar of beach rocks that lives in your family’s coat closet, even though nobody is really sure where it came from or how long it’s been there. Sometimes when you’re rummaging for an umbrella, or that one pair of running shoes that helps with your sciatica you’ll bump into it. You can appreciate it’s a nostalgic thing full of memories, but really. What's the point? It’s just taking up space.
- The inside of your coffee maker the last time you ran out of filters but you were really desperate and running late for work, so you just put grounds straight into the basket and hoped for the best. If “the best” was a somehow simultaneously scorched and curdled mess of tarry residue clinging to your coffee maker’s innards, then you achieved it.
- Ok, remember how in “Golidlocks and the Three Bears” there was porridge that was too hot, porridge that was too cold, and porridge that was just right? Now imagine the porridge that burned to the bottom of the pot, and Mama Bear threw it in the sink with some hot water to soak because she was tired from making all of that porridge, and raising a demanding Baby Bear is exhausting work, and Father Bear has seemed so distant lately, always on that damn iPad playing Candy Crush or some such bullshit, and she’s just so tired, but has also somehow convinced herself she'll come back to scrub it once things had loosened up a bit, and that was three days ago now. That porridge.
In other news: grad school is going grrrrrreeeeeeat!
Catch you on the flipside, babies.