It has come to my attention in my random thoughts and ponderings, that I, myself, as an American citizen, have become far too attached to the luxuries of everyday life. Please, allow me to extrapolate.
This morning, I was making sweet potatoe muffins. This is because sweet potatoe muffins are delicious and if you know anything about me, you know that I believe un-delicious food to be a waste of time. I looked into my cabinet, observed sweet potatoes sitting un-conspicuously on the shelf and said (to the sweet potatoes) "You're next."Sweet potatoe muffins require some preparation, of course. They must be peeled and boiled before being mixed into a secret recipe that's been in my family for a generation, and which I will gladly sell to the highest bidder.
I readied the potatoes on my counter and reached for the peeler, only to discover that it had (miraculously) disappeared. "No peeler?" I said to myself (because I didn't want to show weakness in front of the potatoes) "No problem. People have peeled potatoes for years without peelers. I am a people, therefore, I can peel sans peeler." (you can see how optimistic I am in the mornings...don't worry. I wait until mid afternoon to write these articles) With my dubious logic, I set off across the kitchen to find a knife with which to peel the potatoes, which were waiting anxiously on the counter. Fortunately, my knives had not gone the way of the peeler, and I returned to the potatoes, armed and ready. Or so I thought.
As it turns out, one can be armed, and yet not be ready at all. In fact, if our infestation of the middle east is any indication, we (as a country) are buried inextricably in this predicament, all the way up to our patriotic eyeballs.* But I digress. (actually, I've digressed before. This is a common occurrence. Don't get excited.)
As I began peeling those poor potatoes, I realized that peeling with a knife takes an indefinable skill. One which I do not possess in any way. I began to fear for my fingers, for the potatoes and for the kitchen sink. In all honesty, I was terrified. As evidenced by potatoe peelings (if you could call them that) all over my counters and floor, the horrified expression on the face of my mother's African Grey (google it) and the condemning attitude of my sister's beta fish, I think you could call what I have a disability. I am entirely sure that more of the potatoe went into the sink than the muffins. Some. Scary. Sh*t.
The object of this story of horror and woe is that my morning was spent chasing sweet potatoes (unsuccessfully) around with a knife. My survival as a human being has literally become dependent on kitchen utensils that are prone to running away without decency to give two weeks notice. From this episode, I can only wonder if my helplessness reflects upon America as a nation. Should I be allowed to pass on my genes? And is it in any way important that I feel inferior to a beta fish?
*This does not in any way reflect upon the US military. I do not insult people who are willing to die for me. In this instance, I am mocking the American government by comparing the wisdom of their decisions to my potatoe peeling skills. Which are non-existent. See what I did there? Its called an analogy. Pretty smooth.
