Petri is a Dish Best Served Cold


Came home from work and grilled some chopped up chicken filet in a pan. Did the same with a head of white cabbage. Threw everything together. Seasoned with salt, (rose) pepper, pimento, cilantro, and a dash of apple vinegar. Ate it.
Watched the Vice documentary “This is What Winning Looks Like” for an hour or so. Then continued cleaning out the fridge, which was even more disgusting than last time. The worst is over now, though. The muck and the mold are gone. Rotten food is discarded of. Only the faintest smell of smells bears testimony of the weird party that had been going on in there for the past year or maybe longer. I’ll put the shelves in the dish-washer and wipe the inner walls with some kind of anti-septic tincture, and all will be well.
Despite being a bit proud of myself for eventually getting to it, I still feel a bit depressed that it took me so long. I would love to be able to blame my lifestyle, but really it was just me being weak and afraid.
Still, getting stuff done feels great, and it’s kind of addictive. Writing it all out helped, too. It put an abstract thing (sucking less at life) into a more tangible form. It’s more fun to brag about accomplishments in front of the world than silently coiling up in bed with a massive headache and smoked lungs while ignoring the phone and the door bell in an attempt to hide what a helpless chap you are.
It’s painful when your best doesn’t seem to suffice. But it’s sinister and depressing to not believe you can turn things around eventually and just keep digging yourself into a deeper hole.
I realize that those are grand words for depicting the inner turmoil of cleaning out a fridge. But only if you see nothing in the fridge but a fridge. Maybe what I see in the fridge is the flailing of endless possibilities, each one fighting for their chance to be realized by me.
Yeah, maybe that’s what I see in the fridge.