Burnt

"You're being poopy," he tells me, "Go blog about it."
So, here I am. Poopy me. Blogging about it. Of course, I prefer the phrase "being in a funk" or "grumpy" to "being poopy." I guess I don't have the words to excuse or explain it. It isn't big things that upset me. On the contrary. It is the petty, meaningless, wear and tear of the everyday, the little bits of sadness that worm their way into your heart and crack it apart.

I didn't mean to forget. The timer shut itself off, so only the burning smells called for me. I ran to the oven and ripped it open. But I wasn't there in time. Tears welled up in my eyes, pulled forth by the bitter smoke and disappointment.
The oven is off now, and the smoking, blackened, clumps cling to the pan, like grumpy, stubborn trolls. Deep down, I think I can pull myself together, and walk away. I think. But I don't know, because the deep down in lost in the hundreds of other layers, layers that scream at me. As I scrape the pan, the screech of metal against metal seems to taunt me, and as the trashcan fills, I suddenly feel as if I've never loved anything more then I love these burnt cookies, and that I can't possibly be without them.
I choke down sobs, and finish throwing them out. The blackened pan is dropped into the sink, and the fan is flicked on. The kitchen feels empty.

I wish, Dear Reader, that I could show you a deeper meaning, a silver lining. I wish I could give you hope, or a lesson. But I cannot. It is just me and the smell of burnt sugar and failure. Just me. Being poopy.