Today was an exceptionally brown day, and I mean that in the most negative of connotations.
This morning I thought to myself, “You are without purpose, so why not do something productive today and pretend that you’re not worthless for awhile!” Great idea!
So I took my car to have the oil changed. Because that’s the kind of action that can be positively life altering for someone with limited value and a conspicuous void of marketable skill. Turns out however that all that little jaunt down to Jiffy Lube caused was elevated despondence, immense hatred, and category 5 self loathing.
Oil pan gasket leak. Transmission pan gasket leak. Power steering fluid leak. Fifteen year old car syndrome. Automotive AIDS. Blood piston. Swiss cheese valves. Horse motor. Michael Moore wipers. Chainsaw face. Albacore exhaust. All the things you strive to attain in your primary mode of getting to and from your lucrative career in expense escalation and management.
As I pondered the many fortunes I would soon be forking out to fix my cadaver of a Honda, I decided that if I hurried home and constructed a huge heaping pot of coffee, everything would seem better for 8 to 10 seconds. I tried to make the coffee but it didn’t work.
I poured out the grounds from the morning and to my cataclysmic dismay, the plastic cup mechanism that the grounds live in exploded during the dumping phase. Naturally all the microscopic parts of said cup thing fell into the trashcan, which for some reason was absolutely stuffed with a generous allotment of rotted pork, egg shells, coffee remnants, horse feathers, and tarantula milk.
I scanned the surface of the rubble feverishly with the flashlight on my phone to see if the parts in question were sitting there just waiting to be plucked. But no. They had sunk into the depths. So I dove in. Bare hands. Sifting through the detritus with all the skill and real estate acumen of a feral hog.
Eventually, after fondling every last morsel of puke flavored rubbish, I was able to locate the crucial elements of my Mr. Coffee spaceship between a paper towel soaked in meat juice and a dead octopus.
So then I decided to do my taxes. And that was really fun. I got a refund of 11 cents. Then I lay around for awhile and watched Netflix like a fat guy who only wears pants for a change of scenery. Now I’m staring at the wall thinking about buying CRAFT.
This has been a day in the theoretical life of Aaron Bernquist. While not factual, everything that has been discussed in the preceding manuscript is something that may have happened. While there is no cure for destroyed Honda, it is recommended that all monetary measures be utterly exhausted before an actual solution is reached. Despair will be ample and joy will be absent. CRAFT should be consumed in moderation except for when it is consumed in excess. No CRABS were harmed in the formulation of this data.