Spilt Milk, Cracked Eggs

I was drowning in despair, dreading what the day would bring... But that soon changed after reading this week's Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal. Who would've thought that one man's mental illness could bring this much humor and happiness into the world?

Nonetheless, I am still going to try to write this emo entry, hoping that it will sound really cool and poignant somehow.

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If you spend a few days in the kitchen (which I haven't, but that's what we have imaginations for), there's bound to be waste. Maybe you'll fail to chop your onions regularly or spill yolk over the kitchen sink. Making a meal means creating something nourishing and delicious, but it also means filling a wastepaper basket full of mishandled ingredients and raw food. It doesn't bother a lot of cooks though. They keep slicing and dicing till dinner gets served.

I wonder sometimes if we'd get along better in life if we could look at our failures in the same way. It makes me think though, that to look at failures so objectively would mean looking at the cherished things in our lives with some amount of dispassion as well, as if our dreams and our relationships were nothing more than eggs in a basket... And I guess that that really is the case. Eggs in a basket. That's all they are. And we only have so many eggs in a kitchen and one chance to make something of them. No one egg is irreplaceable, but all of them are important. If handled well, they could turn into something life-giving and nutritious for a human being. Food is precious, and we have to handle it carefully and take a pass on the mourning phase if you're still in the middle of things. That's the only lesson to learn, to me at least. The dichotomy between dreamers and pragmatists may be a false one. If you want to cook, you'll cook, and you'll concentrate on the things in your hands now without discounting the importance of what you threw away.

And if you reach for the basket and find that there are no eggs inside it, then I guess there's not much to be done by that point. You close shop and you wash up without making a meal. Then you head home and start reading some cook books to get a little less incompetent at the process. Or you go around asking for someone to spare you some food. Maybe you beg at times.

If no one spares you any, you go home and lie in your bed hungry, and if this isn't the first day that you've gone hungry, you close your eyes hoping that they'll open again the next morning, or maybe that they won't at all. But if you do wake up, you will in all likeliness find yourself in possession of better cooking skills than the ones you had yesterday, as well as a craving for omelette.

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Okay that ending was not great but please feel free to be uplifted.

Damn I just realized how common this metaphor is. But that's okay. Because it's just like a common dish that's well done. Like an omelette. Yes.

17 days to go and my story is literally in shambles. Darn tootin'.