Yesterday morning, (please note that when I use the term “morning”, I am referring loosely to a time relative to me actually getting out of bed [this is perfectly acceptable as I am a TIME LORD], and by "breakfast", I am generally referencing the first thing I put in my mouth upon waking, which is sometimes even food. Back to the story...) as I leaned over my counter in my crazy donut pants, I was fully absorbed in the task of slowly, methodically—dare I say lovingly?—spreading Boursin cheese on a series of Triscuits, paying careful attention not to neglect any Triscuity edge or corner lest they feel sad to be left out of the cheese party. Standing in my kitchen, fully engrossed in this occupation, I was suddenly aware that at some point during the course of this exercise, I had begun to have this strange inner monologue where I was actually composing a letter to Boursin cheese. It went a little something like this:
Dear Boursin Cheese: ⇐ I used a colon, as this is a formal business letter.
You are so delicious. You are petite and come in a cute little box, and are so creamy and so awesome. I do thoroughly enjoy spreading you on many things: Melba toast, bagels, Triscuits, cucumbers, omelets, Oreo cookies, roof shingles. Never, ever stop being tasty.
Sincerely yours,
Your biggest fan,
Jtron.
It was at this precise moment, as I was mentally signing this letter and softly humming "Kiss on my List" by Hall & Oates, I had a revelation: No one is ever going to love me.
The abruptness and profundity of this revelation caused a bizarre peristaltic chain of events. While I was shoving a cheese-covered Triscuit into my face, I virtually exploded into a fit of hysterical laughter at my own expense, started choking, and fell down ass over elbow.
I think it is worth mentioning here that from my vantage point by my kitchen windows, I can see into my creepy neighbor’s kitchen and vice versa. Creepy neighbor has a penchant for hanging out of said window for hours at a time intermittently throughout the day. This has lead to many uncomfortable window-to-window exchanges where we make weird faces at each other while he mouths pick-up lines at me and I look horrified. Why does he have this bizarre ritual? Nobody knows. What makes this particularly relevant in this instance was that at the time I managed to get back on my feet, tears and cheese literally all over my face, I looked up to see creepy neighbor staring back at me in such abject horror, that it actually made me laugh harder until I nearly peed myself. Billy (because that is his name) on the other hand, slowly, quietly withdrew into the safety of his kitchen/meth lab.
Moral of this story:
I need kitchen curtains.
