Burnt Toast

I don't understand why I constantly end up with burnt toast. It's not that hard a task to watch the toaster in the morning. It's not like I have anything better to do (besides getting changed, brushing my teeth, ironing my shirt, completing my unfinished work etc. etc.).

Anyway, so I burnt my toast again this morning and left the kitchen smelling like it was set ablaze at some point in the night. I hoped no one noticed: I grinned at my housemate as I walked out the door with my charcoal toast on my plate - she'd never know it was me.

Needless to say, I only got through half of the toast before deciding that eating a carcinogenic slab of charcoal was probably not a good idea. I abandoned it and got changed for work. Looking at myself in the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the half-eaten toast on the table - no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite - their absence on my toast was a cloying reminder of what was once an obssession but is now just a matter of bad habit.

The thought moved me slightly as I put on the shirt which once didn't fit me and hung on me like an oversized rag. The realisation didn't seem to want to leave and so I took it to work with me.

By 4pm, I was about ready to stab the computer with my massive, bare hands. The documents I was working on didn't seem right and the perfectionist (or paranoia) in me was throwing a childish tantrum in my head. I resisted letting this tantrum manifest itself in front of my colleagues and I left them to continue tapping away at their computers. Oh how trivial this angered moment will seem in 30 years time - it would all seem like nothing but a distant memory.

I got home at 6pm, after a long walk around (and around and around and around and around and around) the park only to be greeted by, none other than, this morning's burnt toast. Fuck...it's like it's following me. So I've put up with time and psychological conflicts to be haunted by the connotations of burnt toast. Why, oh why are you still in my ever-so-slightly big head?

Of course I discarded the damn thing. The toast I mean, not my head, though had I been able to discard my head together with the memories, I'd have been more than happy to. Unfortunately, that's not how disorders work - they stay with you even after several years and cling even more when you try to get rid of them.

Well life still goes on...and I still wake up to a new day to start afresh once more. So I get on with my routine of...

1) Snoozing my alarm clock five times before getting up
2) Brushing my teeth
3) Putting the kettle on
4) Putting the bread in the toaster
5) Reading the news...


....but oh, what do you know - burnt toast, yet again.