Lemme tell you a story.

     A story of brain fog. A story of loss. A story of how I'm getting stupider with each passing day and should not be trusted to attempt general life without proper supervision. A story of breakfast. 

     Picture it: Virginia, 2014. Jen called and woke me up bright and early to tell me, basically, "GET READY NOW AND COME TO MY HOUSE THIS INSTANT." So I put on the things most closely resembling actual clothes I could find (basically a transition from jimjams to slightly more acceptable loungewear), made a quick but unenthusiastic attempt at taming my hair, and was just about ready to go when I realized wait! I hadn't eaten breakfast! The most important meal of the day (Trailed closely by second breakfast)! But I didn't have any time; the alarm was set and you have 30 seconds to get out of the house before your presence will alert the hounds after you set it. So I figured I'd grab a Toaster Scramble out of the fridge in the garage and toast it at Jen's house. 

     Then my old arch-foe, packaging showed up. No matter how hard I pulled apart that stupid plastic baggie they come in, I could not gain access to my savory tasty breakfast. But I didn't give up. I just kept pulling. I channeled my inner athlete to gain dominance over this bag. But I guess I channeled a little too much, because I went full Hulk-hands and absolutely EXPLODED the bag open, sending Toaster Scrambles flying in every direction. One on the floor, one on the hood of the SUV next to me, one that I managed to catch mid-air. I swore a blue streak, but picked them up within five seconds (Hi, I'm disgusting and don't care about floor germs) and shoved them back in the box, then got on my way. 

     Then this morning I returned to the scene of the crime to see if today I couldn't fetch myself some breakfast without catastrophic failure. I noticed there was one less in the box than there would have been if only the one I had were eaten, but figured someone else must have had one. 

     Halfway through the day yesterday, my mom walks up to me and drops a Toaster Scramble in my lap. "Guess where I found this?" she asked. I shrugged, but had a feeling I was about to be in trouble. "Behind the bug guard on the hood of the car" she said incredulously. This was yesterday, I remind you. The exploding bag incident was on TUESDAY. Which means I left a Toaster Scramble on the hood of a car for two days. And it stayed there through two days of driving! I showed that Toaster Scramble more sights than it had any hope or expectation of seeing. I gave it a good life. Showed it the world. 

     I don't even know how it managed to stay there for two whole days. That seems like it ought to defy physics or something. Like we're lucky it didn't come shimmying up the windshield after a short stop and scare the shit out of someone. Or like if nothing else, a tenacious bird should have run off with it. 

     How do these things even happen to me? I don't even feel like there's a lesson to be learned here. Don't use your Hulk-hands on breakfast-food packaging? Always check your car's exterior for stray pastries? Maybe it's a metaphor for perseverance? I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU GUYS.