I could interpret my misfortune as a sign. My uncooked eggs could be a symbol for how my efforts get inexorably interrupted and rendered for naught by the will of the universe. I could suppose that this is a message from God. A message that nothing will happen with my life, that my efforts to achieve anything are futile. But I don't think so. I don't believe in God, but if there was a God, I don't think he would tell me that. At least not in this manner. I don't think all of my life's efforts have been for naught. Some of them have yes, but not all. I have life left too. Not as much as others, but I like to see my glass of age as half-full. I have time to find something.
So the eggs aren't a symbol. But they do present me with a real issue of dinner. Considering I skipped lunch today, while I swallow rising feelings of anger at the world for delaying the satisfaction of my hunger, I'm still very hungry. I throw out the eggs. I look in the fridge and find nothing edible without some form of cooking, besides a cold, overcooked, four day old sausage patty. I'll treat myself tonight. I've been working hard and I could use some restaurant food. This dinner could put a bow on an otherwise mediocre day.
I step outside the Victorian and look around. It's dark. I decide not to go in the direction of Howell park for my own safety. The Victorian isn't exactly in the nicest part of town. But it's my home. It's what I have. After contemplating my options, I decide on Los Tacos. Is it the best Mexican restaurant in the world? No. But it is pretty good. Although I've never been thrilled by a meal there I've never been disappointed. It's typical, decent, six out of ten, inauthentic Mexican. I'm still excited for it though. It's still a treat. I pass the Exxon Mobil on the way to Los Tacos and the power is on. "Great!" I think excitedly. Surely Los Tacos will have power too. But to my amazement and disappointment it somehow doesn't have power. They're on the same block. How? My brain wants to keep walking to find another restaurant. My stomach wants otherwise.
Two notes sound as I open the door to the food store of the Exxon Mobil, a major third. Part of me thinks about how this sounds like a clock tower that's too lazy to finish it's job. But I try to stifle my cynicism. Sure, it's not Los Tacos, but it's better than a frozen sausage patty and half-cooked eggs. I examine the place. It's a food mart so I shouldn't expect it to have too much variety of food, but still it's pretty sparse. But they do have an isle of pre-packaged sandwiches.
When I get to the isle I see her. Tall, beautiful, with skin white as milk. I look into her eyes, dark brown eyes like a Belgian lager. I breath in. She's the one. Intoxicated with love I stumble over to her. "You're so beautiful," I say. "I am Munny. I love you." She looks at me disgustedly, grabs her sandwich and storms out of the store. "Drunk guys," I hear her say as the door closes behind her. As the moon shines down on her, her skin turns a whiter shade of pale.
I'm not sure why I did that. She is beautiful though. She looked like an Alisoun, an Alisoun Miller maybe. I'll never get to know her name though. I start to curse myself for acting so stupid and weird, but I decide not to criticize myself for losing what I never had.
I still have a hunger to fulfill, and the best part of my night is still ahead of me. I still have a chance to win a small victory with this sandwich. My one treat, my one consolation for this forgettable day is still ahead of me and I still look forward to it. When I look at the sandwich rack though there is only one kind of sandwich left: a breakfast sandwich. It isn't ideal, but at breakfast I do sometimes enjoy a good breakfast sandwich. Maybe I'll find out it makes an even better dinner.
I go to the cashier and purchase my sandwich. I open the package and take a bite. The sausage is cold. The egg in the sandwich is only half-cooked.
I step outside the Victorian and look around. It's dark. I decide not to go in the direction of Howell park for my own safety. The Victorian isn't exactly in the nicest part of town. But it's my home. It's what I have. After contemplating my options, I decide on Los Tacos. Is it the best Mexican restaurant in the world? No. But it is pretty good. Although I've never been thrilled by a meal there I've never been disappointed. It's typical, decent, six out of ten, inauthentic Mexican. I'm still excited for it though. It's still a treat. I pass the Exxon Mobil on the way to Los Tacos and the power is on. "Great!" I think excitedly. Surely Los Tacos will have power too. But to my amazement and disappointment it somehow doesn't have power. They're on the same block. How? My brain wants to keep walking to find another restaurant. My stomach wants otherwise.
Two notes sound as I open the door to the food store of the Exxon Mobil, a major third. Part of me thinks about how this sounds like a clock tower that's too lazy to finish it's job. But I try to stifle my cynicism. Sure, it's not Los Tacos, but it's better than a frozen sausage patty and half-cooked eggs. I examine the place. It's a food mart so I shouldn't expect it to have too much variety of food, but still it's pretty sparse. But they do have an isle of pre-packaged sandwiches.
When I get to the isle I see her. Tall, beautiful, with skin white as milk. I look into her eyes, dark brown eyes like a Belgian lager. I breath in. She's the one. Intoxicated with love I stumble over to her. "You're so beautiful," I say. "I am Munny. I love you." She looks at me disgustedly, grabs her sandwich and storms out of the store. "Drunk guys," I hear her say as the door closes behind her. As the moon shines down on her, her skin turns a whiter shade of pale.
I'm not sure why I did that. She is beautiful though. She looked like an Alisoun, an Alisoun Miller maybe. I'll never get to know her name though. I start to curse myself for acting so stupid and weird, but I decide not to criticize myself for losing what I never had.
I still have a hunger to fulfill, and the best part of my night is still ahead of me. I still have a chance to win a small victory with this sandwich. My one treat, my one consolation for this forgettable day is still ahead of me and I still look forward to it. When I look at the sandwich rack though there is only one kind of sandwich left: a breakfast sandwich. It isn't ideal, but at breakfast I do sometimes enjoy a good breakfast sandwich. Maybe I'll find out it makes an even better dinner.
I go to the cashier and purchase my sandwich. I open the package and take a bite. The sausage is cold. The egg in the sandwich is only half-cooked.
