I was going to write a column today, but I realized this morning I was out of milk. And that meant no oat squares for breakfast. Plus, I had squandered all of the blueberries on my husband yesterday (and milk) making him a milkshake. So I wasn’t in my right mind when I did the Bad Thing. I was in a Fog. People in fogs cannot be expected to do the Right Things, like write columns, or be nice, especially when they have not had their breakfasts. Which, if you really want to point fingers here, you should lay the blame on my husband and his penchant for night-time blueberry milkshakes.
I am just a sad, befuddled person incapable of higher functioning because I didn’t get oat squares for breakfast. This muddles my thinking. But maybe if you wait patiently — and without judgment! (who among YOU hasn’t run out of MILK, huh?) — I may yet write a column when I come out of the Fog.
No, not feeling it.
I think your insistence that I write a column today is the Real Problem Here. You expect too much. Can’t you see that my inability to live up to my obligations IS NOT MY FAULT? My husband NEEDED me. He needed that milkshake! And that set in motion the unfortunate events that led to you not getting a column today. (And really, who cares, crybaby!) The true calamity here is that I have low blood sugar and NO oat squares for breakfast.
But I’m sure you weren’t thinking about that, were you? NO, it’s all about YOUR pain, isn’t it?
I bet you’re fat and satisfied this morning, stuffed with your larder full of breakfast foods. You judge me and yet I detect crumbs of chocolate croissant on your lips! It’s easy for YOU to say “Tracy, where is my column? Snap out of this fog!” — from your well-fed position.
I was going to write it, really I was. Weak from lack of breakfast, I was yes, going to do it for YOU. And I tried. Don’t you appreciate how much I TRIED TO WRITE YOU A COLUMN?
Yes, it’s not finished. Okay, so you have a point, there should be some mention of cheaters or maybe a letter from an anguished chump. You’re really not concerned with the state of grocery shopping in my house. I get it. But it’s so hard to write columns.
My bed understands me. (Unlike you.) My soft, downy pillows do not judge. They say, come here, let me embrace you. Let me keep you safe from the demands of those horrid people who expect things of you. There are fluffy duvets here. It’s nice. Forget them.
I’m sorry. I can’t write today. I’m in a fog.
I think you should all stand for your column. Maybe some day I’ll wake up. Meanwhile, just wait there. Don’t get on with your lives.