The attempt was terrible. It made me want to bash my head against works of 18th century French literature, except some of the works in this library are so old they'd fall apart if I did so. The draft would make a baby cry.
So I'm putting it here instead. If you want to finish it, go for it. I haven't been able to write much of anything lately besides how busy I am lately and rainbows and butterflies. I don't want to write anything deep. Let me tell another story already.
Also, Stephanie got ponded today. Score.
How to make toast
You transport yourself to the store, whether by bicycle, foot, or heaven forbid, by car. You enter the store and find the bread, remembering the rule your mother once told you: the essentials are always at the perimeter of the store. All the junk that makes you overload your cart and pay fifty dollars and forty-two cents more than you expected is all in the aisles.
Today you’re going to take her advice--in part, anyway. You go to the bread aisle first, which is conveniently located near the entrance. Depending on which way you go, it’s near the exit, but you can figure out how to get there, and you do so, only to face nine choices of bread for your next slice of toast. White? Wheat? Generic brand? All-natural potato bread? This is not your mother’s bread.
Everyone else around you grabs their preferred type of bread and moves on with their lives. Normally you would too, but today you stare at the stacks of bread from ceiling to floor.
The mother pushing a cart with a young child in it passes you, and the child grabs a loaf of white bread before moving on. White bread was from the day when you didn’t care about acquiring nutrients from bread, despite eating it daily. Wheat wasn’t much better, but at least it had some nutrients.