the bottom of the cereal bowl

Ah, a fresh page.

A fresh page to say whatever I want about whatever topic I want and I can say it however long or short or BIG I want.

I took a drink of the milk left in my cereal bowl without thinking; I haven’t done this for a very long period.

It all started back when mom decided to read about a hundred nutrition books and found out that milk and dairy and meat were all offenders. I bought in at once, but never gave up cereal, because the alternative was oatmeal and I hate that pig slop. Once I scafed the offenders out of my diet I felt healthier and all the promises rang true and my life was marvelous.

But now, you know, slowly out of convenience, these have crept back in. On a smaller scale, but it still comes back, and before you know it

I’M DRINKING THE MILK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CEREAL BOWL.

Once you pop the fun don’t stop;

If we let ourselves go for even a moment, the fabric

u

   n

      r

        a

           v

           e

           l

           s

and all hell breaks loose. The buildup is slow, but then the dam breaks and the floodgates open.

It seems too late at this point.

But I start each day with a fresh bowl of cereal, a new piece of fabric and a new pair of gates. I always still have a choice.

This seems the theme of my lately life—choosing. It’s called control on my more cynical days, and the loathsome, romantic burden of deciding on my less pragmatic days. But I keep revolving around this inescapable, wonderful ability and responsibility to choose.