Bacon Grease Is Hell
Bacon grease. Damn it. The bacon is cooked, an already evil deadly delight. Now, pan of grease is hot and danger slick. Needs to go… Where? The coffee cans mother used to fill and collect on a shelf are not now how this kitchen lives. And barely eating bacon at doctor directive of impending death from clogged arterial tracts. He proposes a plant-based diet avoiding including anything processed in a plant. This is bacon sneaked in when he’s not looking. But now, there is no grease keep. Looking, seeking. Slamming cupboards sliding drawers. Empty vessels do not abound. Want to toss this slick without gruesome greasy mess. Empty vessels often are in the trash. Not this morning. But wait. Wait, yes, maybe, will it…the empty eggshell repurposed. Like baby bear bed, just right for holding the dose of deadly golden goodness poured from the pan. The shell now sits, waiting for the waste bin. Hot grease going cold. Will it ever gel or will it stay liquid? What have I done. Just a different problem to solve. Bacon grease. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Shaving Is Hell
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.
Bed Head Is 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.
Fingernail Is Hell
Damn it. Fingernail. Trimmed. Not true. Can't get that corner perfect. At it. Clipper. Not a precision instrument. Too. Cheap. Too. Chinese. Too. Walmart. Save money live better? Not my motto! Don't want to measure with micrometer. Ever if so, how to trim? Need closer tolerances. Need lasers. Lasers! Laser-guided nail trimmer. Perfect curves. But how? Where? Damn it. My life is a hell.
Soap Chip Is Hell
Damn it. Soap chip. See it on the shower floor. Grab it. Or try. Have to chase it. And once in hand, there’s another. Get that. Drop the first. Corral the both. Augh! A third! Then what? Press ‘em into the clump of chips already collected compressed sitting on the soap dish. A lumpy, pointy wad of soap. 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?