I lay there for some time, shifting slowly like a glacier, until I somewhat resembled myself again. My dog came to see if I was preparing food or not, but little else occurred. In time, I was able to battle back against the sinister forces of gravity and attain an upright status. And it was at this point that I decided enough of this shit, I was just going to sit and have some food and relax for the rest of the day, because obviously the day was not ready to accept me and all that I am. I prepared soup.
Suck on that, Gordon Ramsey.
Anyone who knows me knows that I assume soup fixes everything. I learned this not from my own grandmother -- who was a useless maniac and once slapped me in the face and justified it by telling my parents I'd told her to fuck off and go home at the tender age of six months -- but from movie grandmas. Movie grandmas were wise as shit, and they made soup. I made soup this day. A bowl of hot-as-balls chicken noodle and vegetable soup. And just as I sat at my table, worn and beaten by a day barely started, ready to drown my sorrows in barley and potato, my goddamn spoon slipped along the side of the bowl and vanished like DiCaprio below the greasy sea.
Was it because I had just hurdled poop and fallen down a flight of stairs in a painful yet curiously not-fatal way that soured my mood? Maybe. But watching that spoon descend to the depths of my meal was the last straw. I cursed like the world's surliest sailor, like a truck driver who just acquired rectal conjunctivitis from a lot lizard, like a dock worker forced to listen to Taylor Swift at work. I cursed the heavens and all below them, for that goddamn spoon was the tool by which my day was to be salvaged, and it was gone. Gone several inches into a bowl. And I was fucking pissed.
Did I get another spoon? Yes. Everything was fine. But for three solid minutes, the world was on the precipice of being swallowed by my rage. You have no idea how close you were to the End Time.