I hope the coffee maker is making coffee tomorrow

no one ever told me how largely unpleasant the habbit of squashing frustration with sarcasm can be.

Meaning, I found out, and realized that if other people knew, if others had experienced the same decreasing satisfaction throughout repetition, why hadn’t I been let in on the revelation?

Either someone cared and forgot and the others who cared thought that that first someone hadn’t forgot.

Or no one cared to mention it at all.

Perhaps the joy comes with discovering that seemingly insatiable desire. Some mistakes are corrected swiftly when discovered through personal experience.

Some personal experiences are lethargically interrupted by past mistakes less fortunately unacknowledged .

If you can’t tell, I am frustrated. I have so many wishes. The first of which it to dissolve that frustration into this fine book on vegetarianism I started today and eventually, to sleep.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time.

Have you ever stepped into an empty elevator and did a quick once over of the reflection in mirrors on the walls? No more maintenance than a stray hair and licking your lips, then wiping them off ever so gently, preserving the balance between too moist and too dry in appearance

A pause to select the floor number as the door patiently comes to a close.

Perhaps now that you are alone, you let loose that gas that has been building up uncomfortably for quite some time?

It is at this moment that you come to terrifying grips with the reality that the solitude of an empty elevator can unexpectedly erupt into a packed out show at the change of a floor. A Volkswagen beetle with 3 or 4 families of five squished professionally into the back corners and above the ceiling tiles in a matter of numbers.

The ensuing stress levels are understandably high.

You aren’y sure whether to hope for the elevator to move quickly to the destination level, giving you the slim chance of darting out before the scent has filled the cramped space, or whether you should keep fingers crossed that the elevator might slow to a crawl and the smell allowed to dissipate. Even partial

dissipation could be manageable. The morning air had a bit of a chill. The noses of the masses are likely stuffed. Maybe. Hopefully.

There seems to be a sizable portion of time to thoughtfully consider the consequences of this mishap. Time to imagine how things could have been avoided. How they may have been different.

For a brief moment, immediately following the original emission, your eyes light up with anticipation, thinking that just maybe this one doesn’t reek something awful.

Unfortunately, you are wrong.

Ding!

I, I mean, you, practically jump strait up and out of your clothes (a less embarrassing incident, strangely enough) and drop to your knees at the startling stop.

And you pray for the best.

You haven’t? Ever?

Me neither.

Something New Every Day

I noticed something new today.

Something new about myself.

I think it sprang up when I was a child. I believe it did.

Now a newly married man, I do my best to find something to clean on a regular basis around the apartment. Dishes have been a common chore as of late.

I was wiping down the kitchen counter and then the stove top when I realized that sometimes, when an area is difficult to clean, I subconsciously cross my eyes and the dirt becomes less visible. This helps me feel like the surface, whether a counter top or bathroom floor or dusty tv, is cleaner than it actually is.

Strange indeed.

Almost like a kid thinking that is they plug their ears, they can watch the pretty lightning and not hear the scary thunder. Well, actually, no, it’s not like that. It’s like ignoring a problem and thinking that it will go away on its own.

Syncing Blinkers

An utter failure.

I fall into this category often enough as it is. Small goals, large goals. Medium sized goals. I have had them all and yet missed the mark more often than most men. Except for that last sentence, where I was really pulling all my mental resources to think of and use a lot of “m” words. I didn’t thesaurus.com any of them, either. And while we’re at it, one of the larger goals was to chip away at some of my long time pride issues. I was struggling with medium-to-high pride levels through the initial creation of this blog earlier this morning. They leveled out once I got to work. Hit an all-day low right around 2:30pm as I straitened out two dingles of hair that had gone unnoticed since I walked in. Peaked as I wrote all those m’s, and finally leveled off as I realized that describing this scenario would be less enjoyable than I originally imagined.

Now that I am thoroughly confused, I will provide a graph for the visual learners:

_________5______________________________________________*________
________4
Ryan’s __3 _______*_____________________________________________*_
Pride ___2____________________________*___________________________
________1________________________________________________________
________0________________________________________________________
_______-1________________________________________*_______________

________Earlier this morning. _Arrived at work. _2:30pm. _M’s. _Now.

==================Time========================>

All this to say that I continue to fail at syncing my turn indicator with the car in front of me when we are idling at a left turn. With each attempt, I begin with new confidence and fresh motivation, only to be let down when I can make the blinking start in unison, but our cars have unevenly paced signals. One inevitably out races the other after 2 or 3 or 4 or 5 blinks. I think 5 is my record. Either that, or it’s my record with matching my windshield wipers to the blinkers. I can’t quite remember.

Frustrating, isn’t it?

I took the time to focus on this by turning down my radio and I missed the remainder of Taylor Swift’s “Our Song.” For nothing. Failure.

Have you heard that joke? The cow that doesn’t give milk is an…?

Utter failure.

When it comes to reining in my pride or alliteration. Or for that matter, syncing blinkers…
I’m the cow that doesn’t give milk.

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