On a good day the sun is shining through the kitchen blinds like a zebra in the air, and the dust motes dance in the stripes like tiny creatures swimming in a microscope. I watch the dust motes for hours sometimes, dazzled by their acrobatics. I follow one in my mind, dancing with it through the air, free from gravity and the momentous downward pull of life for just those frozen moments. I sit at the kitchen table and eat fruit loops with no milk, or maybe pop tarts with strawberry frosting, or if I’m feeling motivated waffles with grade B maple syrup oozing through the dimples. I stay in the kitchen longer than I should, watching the dust motes until the sun has risen high in the sky and illuminated the world. On these days I feel like I know what to expect.

On a bad day the sun is covered in clouds and fog and uncertainty, and I can’t see the dust motes in the kitchen. I know they are there, but not being able to see them makes me uneasy, unable to relax or even get hungry for breakfast. Sometimes when the sun is hiding I hide too. I go back to bed and pull the covers over my head, staying there the whole day if necessary, if the sun never comes out from behind the clouds. On a bad day all I want is to wait for the next day, hoping it will be good again.

So what kind of day will it be today?

break in the storm (by Jerry7171)


It was the greasiest spoon I’d ever mustered the courage to step inside of. I nearly slipped out of the barstool as I took a seat at the counter. The waitress approached and slid me an oily menu across the chipped formica, and I caught a whiff of burnt toast and ashtrays. I could sense the residual smoke exiting her lungs on the exhale. She smiled at me and I thought her teeth might fall out and bounce across the counter into someone’s coffee or scrambled eggs.

I asked her what was good today. She told me that the bacon was smoked to perfection and the grits were to die for. Apparently their homemade gravy could induce a spontaneous communion with God, which I wasn’t sure was a good thing. None of this surprised me. I decided to pass on the gravy as I was too hungover to talk with anyone, especially God. I ordered the grits with extra butter and a side of bacon, and a cup of bitter sludge that was supposed to be coffee. I took it to go. 

The bacon was delicious, but the grits were an epiphany.

greasy spoon (by silverfuture)