A broken spoon and a broken knee, a true story

I know the drugs really mess with your emotions, and being a sane person I tried to negotiate with myself, perhaps a slight contradiction. The dialogue in my head went something along the lines of trying to convince myself that I could, and I would, open this wrapper to get to the spoon, so I could eat my chocolate Frosty. Frosty are my comfort food, and I had just gone through a three hour surgery repairing all the things I tore in my knee, along with the emotional rollercoaster that the last year had been, and I wanted to enjoy my damn frosty. Like I really wanted my frosty. So as I tried to also negotiate with my fingers, finicky little things, I couldn’t manage to tear, break, or pop the stupid plastic covering my stupid plastic, probably destroying the world, spoon. As my frustration grew, my hands went awol and chose to work against the system. Okay, I low key, freaked out, which freaked out my poor dad. As I burst into tears over the whole ordeal, he, confused by the situation started to comfort me, thinking I was in literal (knee) pain. Just as all hope was lost, my rouge hand tore through the barrier. Yet, my victory was fleeting becasue the plastic, not hardy at all, spoon broke under all of my joyous pressure. I proceed to slam the two pieces of now useless plastic into my dad’s floor board. Sobs excaped my mouth and as my dad came to the realization of the 'frosty' situation he, probably with more love and conviction than anyone will ever say this sentence, said “we will get you another spoon”.

#broken_pencil