If I May Whine...

It was a mistake to read a story where the narrator has a breakdown and is taken care of by their partner mere minutes before I haul my ass home to my empty apartment, where the only thing that waits for my attention is the sticky floor where I spilled my coffee and broke my favorite cup. Oh, and the dress I spilled all my coffee on. An unmade bed. INGREDIENTS, not even left overs for dinner, I have INGREDIENTS that I have to do something with.

Fuck.