Everything is wonderful. Everything is just fucking fine.
A slamming of a cup down on a counter only slightly rattled the kitchen. It could have been worse.
The clouds outside were a nice smooth grey. Very calm. There was not even a distant grumble of thunder, and not a rush of wind to clatter the tree branches. Nothing. The storm was entirely inside the house. It was a mind-storm, made of catastrophizing thoughts that were mounting and mounting, getting fiercer by the moment.
The butter, cold but annoyingly pliable beneath a forceful squeeze, mushed into the mixing bowl. Sugar sprinkled onto the kitchen floor, and there is nothing more annoying than walking in bare feet and stepping on sticky sugar. It was more fuel for the fire.
The mixer blasted on setting 8, and resulted in a tornado of sugar melding into butter that then sent a bit of sugary-hail onto the surrounding counter. It landed right on top of that annoying stain left by spilled grape juice, covering it up. Good. I squinted my eyes villainously at it.
Egg shells splintered onto that counter. You aren’t actually supposed to attack an egg when you crack it, apparently. A faulty bag sent a trail of chocolate chips from one side of the kitchen to the other, to mingle with the sugar.
No one listens to me, or does what I tell them, not even chocolate.
I shuffled back toward the cabinet once the mixer paddle was making an aching sound, like an old man carrying a very heavy load of cookie dough on his back. I forgot the vanilla.
You are overpriced and overrated, I thought, sending my message telepathically to the adjacent cabinet. You suck, I added for good measure.
The dough splatted into jagged blobs onto the baking sheets, misshapen and neglected.
Like the exhausting effort I put into everything dysfunctional and ungrateful in my life.
The oven door slammed shut.
The oven door jerked open.
Everything I do for these people is all a waste of my time and no one appreciates all of my wasted time. I should just move away. Far, far away. Maybe another continent.
Hot gooey chocolate entered my mouth.
No, that’s too much trouble—oh my god this cookie is good—I should just put the children in boarding school. Maybe take a nightshift job so that I have an excuse to never see anyone I know.
One cookie down; reaching for another.
Maybe not a nightshift. Maybe after I put the mongrel-children in boarding school I will get a job at a bakery—then I will still have a few brief moments of interaction with familiar humans before I go to bed at 6PM.
Two cookies down; reaching for another.
Maybe I could continue parenting. I just need a break more often. Maybe I will sign them up for an afternoon class—they could be making clay bowls and smearing paint all over themselves while I peacefully eat cookies for an hour or so a few times a week.
Third cookie down; satisfied.
I love those little rascals. I guess I won’t leave in the night and start hiking the Himalayas. They need me after all. What would the husband do? He doesn’t even know how to make cookies.
Everything is going to be fine. Just fine.