There are so many of these little fucking traps waiting
I almost let the day get away from me without putting a single word down. And i don’t mean like usual (the word which, in the fifth grade spelling bee kept me from accelerating into the higher level reading class because no matter HOW many chances Miss May gave me, her accent made it sound like it had a fucking ‘h’ in it. But, despite being the only kid in the grade level curriculum for the final 3 rounds before I was eliminated, having surpassed most of my ten year old peers quite handily, my implorations to be moved up to the ‘F’ book went utterly ignored…as *cough* always.)
Where the fuck was I?
OH. Yeah I don’t mean to say I was agonizing over it and succumbing to the utterly bullshit non-thing that is “writer’s block” (it’s laziness. That’s all.)
No no, I just totally spaced it. Shut down my computer and was brushing my teeth and everything, then thought “awh, fuck.” So here I lay, with my laptop on my lap.
It’s not like I just fucked off the whole evening.
In face when I got home I was thinking to myself: Self? You haven’t baked a cake in like 35 years. Breads, cookies, pastries, candies…sure. But no cake. Why not take that box of cinnamon cake mix you bought the other day and give that a whirl? I mean, it was two bucks right?
Besides, what’s the point of a quiet evening of mental decompression when instead you can pour the cake batter into the 9×13, slip and send both of them off the edge of the counter and in a split second, save half of the bowl of cake batter, condemning you to an evening of
cleaning the floor, the cabinets, your self, then taking the sloppy cleaned-up cake batter in the little cardboard box (that would hopefully be at hand) and take them out in the rain to drop in the burn barrel so as not to tempt the fates, as they sometimes manifest as rodentia.
Wouldn’t that be more fun?
So there I sat, finding the occasional sticky spot on my hoodie, wet from the excursion, with an 8×8 instead of a 9×13 cake for my effort, a new clean spot on the kitchen floor, listening to thunder, suddenly realizing what I should do next.
We’ll see if it’s any good. I’ll frost it in the morning. It’s a cake out of a box so I’m not sure how good it’ll be. But it does remind me of the spice cake my mother used to make, if only in that the kitchen smells of cinnamon.
So, worst case scenario it’ll set m down that path.
But it’s 12:30 and I’m fucking whipped.