I was just drinking coffee and eating a popover whilst checking my email. The content of one of my emails required a lot of my attention, and I had to check my facts with some papers on my desk. Here's where the story takes a horrific turn, so brace yourselves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that I had some popover left, sitting on my address book. Without looking I reached for it and found that it wasn't there. I thought I saw a piece of popover where no popover existed.
It is no small thing to be mocked by the void. Death will soon stick to us like an ill-fitting track suit on a fat, honey-covered jogger. Before I yell, "cannonball!" and fling myself into the abyss, I just want to be able to correctly gauge how much food I have left as I eat it. The bitter disappointment of unexpectedly living in a popover-free bedroom has me ensconced in ennui.
There is no achingly beautiful tragedy here, nor light-hearted comedy, nor base desire compelling me towards recklessness. There is only a banal contemplation of the abyss. I'm perched here on my little chair, sadly remembering my beloved popover, done too soon. My fat body perched on this stool like a water balloon on a flagpole. Oh, whither this pain!
I will mock the void back...and go downstairs and get another popover. Oh, yes, there is one more, and this time it will be different. I'm wiser now, and will no longer be tormented by my peripheral vision.
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