Did I ever tell you I’m a fan of the crust? The heel. You know, the start and end parts of a loaf of bread. Whichever name you want to call that rose. Lot of folk don’t like it at all. But I’m a fan. Particularly when it’s toasted. Tasty. As. Funk!
So when I went to prepare a celebratory meal for myself last night, I did not mind that all I had left was one slice of bread crust. Horsed it into the toaster. Checked the fridge. What else do I have for this fine meal? Hmm. Fridge. Bare. Naked. Tut. Although, I do have two baby tomatoes left. Wonderful. Anything else? Sniff. Balls. Toast. Burning. Burnt. Ah Jiminy. Not to worry, I shall make do. Nothing can sour this mighty celebration!
In the end, I had: One burnt slice of toast. Two sliced tomatoes. And. A glass of gin, to wash it all down. Mmhmmm. Tasty. Horsed it into me. Two bites. Two chugs. Gone. Quite the feast. Quite the celebrations. Standing in my kitchen. Alone. In my underwear. Betsy. Momentous occasion! Rejoice! Could’ve been a burnt sock for all I care. Especially as moments earlier I had finally finished a full draft of my first ever book. Wuu huu!