What is it when the jar lid is on too tight, but you’re the only one who ever opens your jars, so really you’re just mad at yourself? What’s that? This is the now self–hugely wizened, of course–angry at the former, lesser self. But look: you’ll screw the lid on extra tight this time just out of spite for your future self. See if you can open that, you fuck. Now it’s on good.
What with all that anger? Can’t you just get along with yourselves? Are you trying to start a riot?
And what is it when you clear the last plate from the sink, and there, caught at the bottom of the drain screen, is one single fusilli noodle that escaped hours ago, and you find yourself getting sentimental over it? Is that normal? You stand there peering down at the lone fusilli noodle, and you think of all its friends who made it out after being in their box together for so long, and here lies a lone remnant, cold now, and… diminished somehow. You pick up the pale flaccid spiral and drop it into the garbage bag with grave resignation. Then you rub your fingers as you look out the window.
But again, maybe it’s better than the alternative: unadulterated rage. Nice try you pasta fuck! Come here, the drain’s too good for you. And you add it to the other escaped pastas in that crawlspace behind your toilet.
What’s that all about? That’s not normal at all.
Get better soon.