Shaving. Damn it. Yesterday’s face easy smooth as infant ass. Today, no shave. Still smoothish. Tomorrow, shave or no shave? Getting baby bottom face is a struggle. Fresh blade’s good. Hot hot hot water good. Wrapping head in hot wet towel? Good. Sinking up to nostrils in boiling hot bath? Good. But work. Then, which direction? With whiskers doesn’t yield newborn buttocks closeness. Against whiskers does. But...against whiskers spawns ingrown hairs. (Do babies have those?) And then: Missed a spot. Go back. Re-scrape. How do those hairs grow in so many differections? If today is close enough, no need to scrape tomorrow. But when tomorrow becomes today, how to decide? And what if there’s just no shaving at all? Starting to reveal the inner Sterno bum. Inconsistent infantass intoleration disinterative facing up to facts of no way to make it always so. Damn it. Shaving. My life is a hell.
Venetian blind. Damn it. Little tiny pull. Too much light. Little tiny pull other way. Not enough light. Infinitesimal sliding but no. Precision is not to be had. And where is the unison? The harmony of the slats? Separation lacks uniformity. Overlaps unequal top to bottom. Some slats have slight warp to throw the stack into dismaying disarray. 180-degree rotation? More like 173 degrees and wanting. The overlaps lack match. The cords are crass. They mock perfect play. Lift and separate cross your heart ha! Lifting is lackadaisical. Rotating is random. Control of light and air is half-assed hearted. Damn it. Venetian blind. My life is a hell.
Basil. Damn it. Fresh basil? Good. Growing fresh basil? Beast. Respect for new life flies out the window. Crippling the plant for food is first and foremost. New buds? Kill! Energy must go to grow leaves, not flowers. Not. Flowers. New bud? Pluck. New bud? Pluck. New bud? Pluck. New bud pluck. New bud pluck. New bud pluck. Dirty, dirty work. Foiling flowers for a finer food. The self-hate is sufficient without also committing herbicide. And the dilemma of detail. Pluck the bud, not the leaf. Pluck the bud, not the leaf. Pluck bud, not leaf. Pluck bud, not leaf. Pluck bud, not leaf. Pluck bud not leaf! Augh! Leaves! Fat fingers plucking leaves! It is willed. This plant must die. Damn it. Basil. My life is a hell.
Butter. Damn it. Toast needs butter. Coverage is critical. An even spread of fat to the edges of the toasted surface matters most. Correct knife is crucial. Sufficient strokes. Butter enough to make it to the edges without spilling over. Get a gap between crust and crumb and the process must be scrapped. Have pat posed. Toaster pops. Pick toast. Place on surface. Scrape and spread. Get to the border. No drips. No gaps. Gaps. Drips. Eegad. No! Augh! Not perfect. Not. Perfect. Eat or toss? Dilemma. Damn it. Butter. My life is a hell.
Damn it. Whole grain. Good, right? Get ‘em. They got fiber. They cramp cancer. Heart healthy. Or…not. Whole grains kill. They are anti-nutrition. They suck out minerals. They are fat burning bombs that bomb you into obesity. They are the inflammatory anti-inflammatories. My buddies barley and brown rice. Magical maize and millet. Sassy sorghum and spelt. Everyday oats, rye and wheat. Wherefore art thou part of the wholegrain madness? Food kills! Whole grain. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Damn it. Bed head. Sticks up. Can’t flatten. Alfalfa sprouts. Morning meeting. Overslept. No time. No shower. Cancel? Just go? Wear a hat? Isn’t that rude? Manners. Miss Manners. Missing manners. No worries about manners. Just…just coffee. They will have coffee. Right? Crap. Bed head. Damn it. My life is a hell.
This is hard for me. My life is a hell. Be afraid. Or you will join me. TFTD: WTH?