How many C's can I fit in one day?

Centr, cooking, culinary school, coding, childcare, composing (eg blogging). A fair amount! Objectively, my life is stressful. There's no secret to managing it. There's no "These 5 time saving tips will rock your world!". There's no magic behind it. I set the chicken to cook, "Alexa five minute timer", I change my son's diaper, I watch a tutorial... and so on. Five minutes are up.

I flip the chicken, make myself a drink. Cognac, Tennessee Apple, and a splash of raspberry lime.

Parsing out tasks. Making sure none get dropped. Well okay some get dropped. I forgot about our dog, she's still outside. Letting her in now. My daughter comes up and shows me the lava monster she made out of Duplo blocks. I laugh, take her photo, pat her head.

Flip the chicken. Wife comes says hi. I casually mention that one of our friends that we're on the fritz with texted me out of the blue. Career and education questions. I'm always open to those. He remembered that.

I'm pretty good at this career thing if I do say so myself. Yes that's bragging. Yes I have gaps. But eh, I think I'm doing well. What of it?

Flip the chicken. Take it's temp. Looks done. Tastes great. I should take it's temp. I opened the lid, a bit of moisture got trapped in chicken. It exploded when I opened the lid. Whatever, the searing heat on my arms is reminder I'm dumb. Tastes good though.

Sear on 350, cover. Five minutes, wait. Flip. Five more minutes. Wait. Flip. Reduce heat to 250. Cook for 10. Flip. Cook for five. Perfect.

Still, you'll get burned.

I offer help. I reach out and make sure people know they're not alone. Often times I get bit. Hurt. Slapped. Whatever. The searing heat reminds me I'm dumb.

I keep doing it. Doesn't matter how many times it pops. Gotta keep moving. Can't get dragged down. Keep reaching out. Keep pulling up. Keep going.

Sometimes.

I run out.

I get tired.

I want to rest.

I used to not rest. I would just collapse. Have some fever-like symptoms. Recover for a week. Do it again.

Now? I listen. I listen to my kids. I listen to my wife. I listen to my body. I try to remain healthy. I try to stay fit. I put effort into myself. Though not nearly as much effort as I try to put into others.

I love the other. I wish I loved myself. I wish I cared about what I've "achieved". I wish I cared about who I was. I just want to be loved damn it. I want to have connection. I want to be attached to this world. But I can't. It's not there anymore. I severed the feelings of connection. I try to claw them back. I try. Really, I do. Instead, a dab of searing pain from the searing pan.

But hey. The searing pain reminds me I'm dumb. So I move on.

I say dumb, because I'm egocentric. No way around it. It's difficult for me to understand other people. It's easy for me to stand on pedestals. It's easy for me to look down. It's easy for me to judge. So I remind myself. I am dumb. I am weak. I am small. And that's okay. I'm not out there trying to be a superhero. I'm offering a hand. Not a martyr. A hand. It's not a lot at the end of the day, but miracles are in the small things. Bugs/defects in a bit of code can through entire years of development off. How too that must be true in life. Little moments are foundational. Not the grand sweeping times that we want to be our core memories.

<insert A core Memory meme here>

Cutting chicken now. Half inch dice. Making a dish for class. Forgot the lettuce leaf. Will red kale work? Probably. I'm not asking. I am hoping. I do that a lot. That stupid line of "ask forgiveness, not permission" pops into my head a lot. I'm working on a "bound salad". Which is a fancy way of saying chicken salad. But it's not wrong. There are true technical terms to apply. It's not some arbitrary thing. Bound salads are a whole art onto themselves. But that line. Ask forgiveness. It's justifying hate. It's justifying selfishness.

I hate it. Deep sort of hate. Because I do it. And I hate it.

That little drink of cognac and whiskey? A little too strong. I'm drunk now. Drunk writing is the key to the philosophical soul eh Hemmingway? Except not. Another misattribution that a few minutes of Googling solves. Not Hemmingway. But does it matter?

Don't write drunk on the Internet. It's solid advice if you're whiling your days away hiding yourself. If you're taking the time to suppress your opinions, those sobering ones. I try not to. I do of course, we all do. We're all inflammatory to an extent, and I think maybe... just maybe... we should embrace that. We shouldn't always be hiding.

Flip the chicken.

Get it? It's a pun. Enjoy.

Damn. Missed the thousand word mark.