it’s 4 am.
why is it 4 am?
nobody shall know. we answer to no man.
even yourself? especially yourself.
(as you can see, man is gender neutral but used here instead of person because the word “person” reminds me of those bathroom signs with the little blob figure and the world “man” reminds me of mulan and, visually, mulan is cooler than a bathroom sign.)
what have you done in the hours that have spanned between this one and the one in which you were doomed to wake up, find some old oatmeal, hope it was decent enough, and eat it?
let’s see, now shall we
- sat, for many hours
- washed a towel, rather unusually, since towels aren’t things you associate with needing to be washed
- texted a good friend about hamilton (hamilton, just you waaaait)
- spammed your sister (she is at work, and you are a whole lot of it)
- tested a couple of photos on the strange internet sharing site (my goodness, which one)
- cursed the strange internet sharing site for ruining the nonexistent quality of the photos
- took more photos
- hopped from internet place to internet place
- and sat
- much sitting
- some ukulele
and now, through no arbitrary methods such as a schedule or a time, you decide the feeling in your gut is for food, not to actually do anything. lovely.
the fridge holds some leftover rice and meat-thing. it’s stale. the dog whimpers as you ceremonially chuck it out the window.
some strange demongorgom thing or whatever they call the monsters that lurk in the night will probably come and get it, and then mistake it for a peace offering, and then gag at how horrible it is, and then come for your head and take you to a secret lair and force you to eat pineapple pizza til the end of time, but for now, there’s nobody except yourself, and you’re still hungry.
ants crawl at your feet and you stamp to clear them away, these are your house chinelas, be respectful ants.
you open the fridge again and wince as the putrid smell of plastic invades your senses. it’s… it could be nicer. but it isn’t. shame. your eyes catch a square little package, and hope gleams. or is that evil? either way, the jig is up.
next, you smuggle the crunchy plastic wrapper in the folds of your oversized shirt and make sure to close the door before the cat attempts yet again to yap in. wouldn’t do at all, that cat, bad thing. she will enact revenge later, but for now, the cat yowls as you arrive back at your original location and attempt to create something edible.
there’s a tiny bowl on the countertop. you grab it, check if it’s cracked, then slam it back down as you rip out the carefully snitched sustenance wrapper and place a block of pale, dry hard wavy noodles in the bowl.
it doesn’t fit.
after chipping away at the corners, it looks like it can hold water. of course, there’s only one way to test that. you head to the sink and behold, it has not exploded. (yet.)
that taken care of, you put the strange dehydrated carbohydrate with flavoring concoction into the tiny oven of potential zapping death and await the results.
you arm yourself with
oven mitts cloth hand protectors and inch toward the smoke and imagined horror.
the moment of truth.
you inhale, yank the door out, and await your death. and behold.
20 peso instant beef nami ramen.
you brave soul.
~you make no sense/thank you, jo~