…is what it metaphorically requires to operate my can opener. I have a mind to sling it, in the most physically awkward and ridiculously violent way, across the kitchen with less care than a goldfish as to what else it destroys on its careening trajectory of rejection.
But I also have a thoroughly serviced sense of long-suffering and a gladiator’s heart. So back into the drawer it goes. As I exit the kitchen, my rampant imagination misleadingly, but quite gratifyingly, envisions that I’ll one day be a shiny-scalped, osteoporotic ninety-year-old with a four-foot cheater bar on the damn thing before I allow it to sneak up on the best of me.
Indeed, we shall see. For now, I sit rather smugly with a bowl of warm soup and a spoon to swim in it.