Today, I tried to microwave some popcorn in my grandparents new, expensive microwave. When the timer rang, I went and opened the door only to find that the entire bag had been transmogrified into a cloud of smoke that spilled out in huge clouds all down the doorway and on to the stove. It was a friendly enough cloud, and presumably sentient, because shortly after it appeared, it swept down to greet me through my air-holes.
Suffice it to say, the entire experience was rather unpleasant.
My grandfather had come into the room, striking up a conversation while the bag was cooking and I'd forgotten about it. I had microwaved it for a minute prior, but it was too short, and then stupidly put it in for two minutes (and thirty seconds), which most anyone who owns a microwave would know isn't an advisable move. I was so distracted by talking with him, that I didn't realize the timer was almost up until he asked how long I had placed it in for.
Then I opened the door (or was it him?), and, well, you know the rest. My grandfather turned and looked at me after I'd taken out the ruined bag of smoking popcorn and said (with a stern voice and steely gaze) "Take this outside and throw it away... quickly!". I bolted out the door, muttering to myself about lighting the beacons, and threw it in the garbage can. It struck me that placing a smouldering object into a case filled with garbage might not be the best choice of action, but decided to ignore it. Oxygen is needed to feed a fire, yadda yadda. I think we should be fine, as the house has yet to go up in flames.
Shortly after I returned, my grandmother peeked her head out of the door to her bedroom, wrapped in a towel and still wet from the shower. "Is something on fire?" she'd asked, stress and bewilderment pairing off as the words spilled from her mouth. My grandfather pointed at me and said that I'd nearly lit the microwave on fire. I looked at her sheepishly and exclaimed "Microwaves are hard!", to which she shook her head slowly, her eyebrows drawing together. "No. Microwaves are easy." My grandfather smirked and said I had forgotten to use the popcorn setting, and joked that I might be a little slow. I question whether or not he was truly joking, as often, I wonder that myself.
Not long thereafter, he made another bag of popcorn and mentioned that I might try manually popping the corn we have in jars beneath the counter, since I seem to do better where electrical appliances are not concerned. My uncle would be proud.
Except he wouldn't, because he never is, and he's an engineer, and thinks I'm probably insane. He may be right.
A few hours later, I was rotating between lying face-first into the carpet, and lying face first with half of my body off the bed. On the rare occasion, I sat in the desk chair and thought about the eventual 'death' of the universe, and the meaninglessness of my own existence. Then, I got up and poured a cup of sugar into a mug, filled the rest of it with ice, vanilla, and then milk. At some point during this process, I decided to take up the advice given to me by many beautiful, charming souls over the years. That, perhaps instead of naming objects around the house and telling them about my problems, I should write them down.
What problems you may ask? Well, there was a point when they were relevant to my life and others. Now, they're usually only relevant to my toes. See? Toes. I spilled milk on them moments before. Milky toes.
Gods.
Home(ish):
And before you ask, no, I'm not allowed to swim in it.
I never thought I'd say this, but... I miss people. Even the shitty ones. Maybe especially them, at least it gives me something to feel.
Solitary and bored,
LQ
P.S. I'll explain the living situation later. Maybe. Promise. Kind of.
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