Porridge

November 13th 2017

Today the only noteworthy part of my day was that they repainted the office kitchen, which led to some confusion over which box of Quaker Oats on the top shelf was mine. I think that’s the most middle class, first-worldy sentence I’ve ever written down, but it’s about all that happened today.

For a few moments I had to weigh the contents of each box of Quaker Oats to adjudge which box was most likely to be mine based on how much I think I’ve eaten since I bought the box. One of them was almost full, so that couldn’t be mine. One of them was almost empty, so that couldn’t have been mine. In the end I decided that mine was the one in the middle that was about half full.

Typing that, I realise that this makes my morning sound like some sort of industrial, porridge-based tale of Goldilocks and the three bears (although, saying that, Goldilocks is already a porridge-based tale, right?).

Long story short, there’s probably a reasonable chance that I stole someone else’s porridge for breakfast this morning. I’ll be stealing someone’s chair next — or however the story goes.

I don’t know how it could’ve been avoided. On Friday I knew exactly which box of Quaker Oats was mine because of where it was positioned on the shelf. But today I came in and all of the boxes had been moved around because of the painting. It through me right off!

On a more meta note, I honestly can’t believe I’m almost 300-words into this story. Congratulations if you’ve got this far.

Until tomorrow, ahhhh, this porridge is just right.

Jacn

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