Some more just me

Here you see my baking cabinet. Just enough room for what you see. The space continues on the left, but containers get lost in the corners where I cannot reach. I also manage to wound myself reaching into those dark spaces. Yes, you do see salt on two of those shelves. I use the umbrella girl salt to clean my iron skillet or if a recipe calls for salt. On the bottom shelf sits a sea salt grinder. Sometimes I allow myself a half-turn.

I took everything out of the cabinets I cleaned today, wiped the shelves down with an antibacterial soap and water solution (I had no bleach and refused to go get some). I tossed outdated spices and sorted the foods so I can find them more easily. I also did four drawers.

I also swept the kitchen floor and did a mountain of dishes.

Then I took a three-hour nap. I hope to clean the refrigerator tomorrow.

But you do not really care about all this, do you? I bet you are bored to tears.

Recognition for the writer, whether blogger or Pulitzer winner, hangs in the background as an impetus for toiling over a single word. You hope someone reads what you wrote and identifies with the emotion you try to describe. You want someone to pat you on the back and tell you job well done. Your brain struggles to find ways to touch others.

At times, inspiration comes from the desperation of loneliness. Experiences tint the atmosphere of what we write. Our imaginations allow us to be mini gods in control of our own worlds.

Anywho, Dude. I miss you.

Later.