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Every so often a particular trifle rushes out from the blur, triggering a sudden vicissitude. You never expected it, but you should have.
You hate it when you laboriously prepare your sandwich, and your mouth tingles in anticipation for the sandwich's glorious flavor, and you smell something off-minty, like a crushed pep-o-mint lifesaver in the distance, and then you turn the bread over and there is a turquoise eye of mold staring you down, daring you to bite the bullet and eat it anyway. Fury thickens your blood and hardens your veins, threatens to split them. |
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You hate how you can't do it. You gulp your saliva and grit your teeth, but there will be no sandwich tonight, for your rage just threw away the last of the bread. Your sandwich fixings spread naked, ravished on the counter. You hate how it is impossible to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no bread, and you curse the gods who have forced this fate upon you.
And you curse yourself for being a mere pawn, but you continue your unceasing march forward into the bleak unknown. You always do. This time, though, you will not allow yourself to forget. Revenge is close at hand, is it not? |
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