I’m ashamed that I literally have a stack of books written by friends and acquaintances that I’ve yet to read. I’m also really annoyed that I have a stack of books I have to read written by people I know because I selfishly feel like that shouldn’t make a book required reading (but I love [some] of these people).
I’m also ashamed that i didn’t read anything in the 4-5 days I’ve had food poisoning and instead watched a bunch of TV when I wasn’t falling asleep or on the toilet.
I get the sense it won’t be any of the big news. I get that sense now, as I tear apart my kitchen looking for an expensive pack of gourmet chocolate chip cookies I bought at the local organic grocer, that it will be a small thing that ignites the beginning of the end. Something as small as this pack, which I was sure still had three cookies left in it, but I am not finding it anywhere.
I get the sense the breakdown will come after, like tonight, I have fished through the garbage and the recycling to see if there is, lying at the bottom, an empty brown paper bag with a little cellophane window to see how fresh and gourmet these cookies are, or were.
It will be thematic and resembling the larger issues. That which will cause the breakdown will be the proverbial straw and I the camel. The event that will precipitate the breakdown will be a synecdoche of every event that happened in my life until that point.
E.g.: I am aware of eating three of six cookies. I ate them when I cleaned up my house on Saturday in a fit of frustration and forgetting. I ate cookies to cope with insincerity and dishonesty and the crumbling and collapse of the only thing I held dear. And then I went out and had margaritas.
The obvious explanation is I ate the cookies after a night of drinking, only it wasn’t a night of drinking. It was a night of four margaritas over the course of three hours. It was a night of leaving the bar at 11:30 and having a healthy and memorable conversation with the cab driver on the way home. There is no cellophane and paper bag in the trash.
Without that evidence, the obvious explanation is out. I have to investigate now. Where could these cookies have gone if even their vessel is missing? Then I remembered my brother-in-law stopped by on Sunday while I was work. He came and picked up his car which was in the garage, but I do not know if he came inside, saw some cookies on the counter, opted to take them. He is stoned most of the time.
Here’s the problem: My sister and her husband are very defensive people, and neither are known for their honesty nor admitting to their crimes. If I were to air a grievance with them about the disappearance of my cookies, they would flat out deny any part of the disappearance. If they are honest in their denial, then I will be the asshole. If they are dishonest, they will still try to make me feel like an asshole. Either way, the case is will remain unsolved.
I cannot explain it any further, except for this: Cookies are like crack to me. I am a fat kid with fat kid coping mechanisms and man am I fucking fucked up and depressed right now. Everything is piling on top one another. The greatest ameliorative substance in my life right now is baked goods, and I have none.
This is what will cause my nervous breakdown that’s been building: A house without cookies.