But then, you realize, that a certain pleasure, a certain ray of hope sparkles out of turning on a stove and making something, anything. It doesn't have to be nutritious, it doesn't have to be complex, or even healthy. And so I did, I got off my seat, went into the kitchen, took some popcorn kernels out of the pantry, pulled out a pan, drizzled some oil inside of it, covered the bottom, uniformly, half a kernel deep, put it on the stove and set the flame up. Dropped a few kernels in, five to be precise, I like five, so I always drop five. And as I waited for them to pop (once the five pop, I drop a handful, search it up online and you will find what is going on), I thought:
"Butter. Yes, you health freak, you. You will eat them without even a pinch of salt. Open the fridge, take out the butter stick, and a root beer while you are at it. It is that kind of day." This, of course, being a novelization of the actual thought, which was shorter and more of a quick electric impulse than an actual sentence. But if it had been a spoken thought, it would have sounded like that.
So I did, grabbed the soda and the butter. I figured, it's a rainy lazy blue day. Perfect time to seek comfort in the things we actually have power over. Like food. Once the popcorn popped, they got a yellow golden creamy bath of butter, they got salted with sea salt, and were accompanied with a sugary fizzy carbonated drink.
A recipe that sounds tailored made for obtaining diabetes, but also made for temporary happiness and faux warmth.
Why do drugs to lighten your day when you can just do butter and salt?
They should perhaps use that for marketing.
