I feel as though the last three weeks of my life happened in a matter of hours. One second I was talking about being real with pancakes and the next thing I knew, three weeks had passed. As I pressed post on all that pancake talk, unexpected things began happening left and right. People moving on, being forced out, going new places, breaking things off, making amends, not getting what they deserve, doing the unexpected, and being altogether crazy.
Despite all of it though, I was seemingly handling myself pretty well. All the uncertainty was rolling right off my back, like nothing had happened. Then, I almost severed the tip of my left ring finger. As in, I cut more than halfway through, nail and all. Standing over the cutting board, staring down at bloody bell pepper, I slowly realized how bad it was. I transitioned to the sink, and placed my hand under the running water, holding the tip of my finger on. I kept thinking how it was weird it didn't hurt and how those knives were actually pretty sharp, despite my complaining otherwise, and how I really freaking wanted some tacos damnit. I was completely composed as Dale cleaned and bandaged me up. And then, I sort of lost it. I was suddenly full on hysterical. It sounds silly, but apparently this was my breaking point. Dale, knowing it was about more than a cut finger, finished the tacos. And I ate them, through tears and despondence. Because I was determined to have those tacos. I had been "fine" this whole time--you know, that "blessing in disguise," "things will work out," "nope, haven't heard anything yet, but it's ok because," "things will be hard but we can do it," etc., attitude. But I guess I needed to just be sad, to be scared about the future, to be angry that life isn't fair. So I had my moment then gathered myself again over the next day then made cookies.
