3 months ago
A day like any other, I had awoken to find a skin-covered abyss where my stomach had been the night before. If there is music in hell, it is played with an alarm clock. The high-pitched death notice, ripping me away from my heavenly slumber, grabbing the very fabric of my thoughts and, after cruelly meshing reality and fantasy together, deceiving my very dreams until I realized that something was amiss, persisted until I was forced to leave my oven, my haven, trek across the room, half-consciously locate the loud, empty promise of doom, and bring Thor's hammer down upon the snooze button. This process repeated itself until something else required my attention and forced me to awaken, a biological need to dump anything with even the slightest modicum of nutritional value into this bottomless pit of a stomach. The sting of a combination of rapid eye movement during stage one sleep (from which I was so rudely awakened), and general dryness, screamed out in pain as I numbed the burning by smearing my hands across my eye sockets. My conscious being tore through my eyelids as I desperately tried to keep them open, and the moment of truth was upon me. I blindly shuffled toward the door handle, the one thing keeping my man cave safe from harm and all nasty things in this world, and pushed it open.
The Sahara desert may very well contain more sustenance than did my cupboards. My stomach roared and growled as though a wildebeest were hiding somewhere inside the empty refrigerator, plump and injured, an easy kill. I was still drowning in the amount of light coming through the windows and from my ceiling, feeling the disappointing wooden grain of the food pantry as if I could eat brail. Oh, how cruel fate had turned against me, if only I had had the gift of foresight enough to adventure out into the darkness the night before toward a market and, through the dark void of my street, been able to procure something of nutritional value for this dying animal under my shirt.
All of a sudden, from the dim morning light as the maritime fog lifted, there, a whale I did spot, like the mirage of a baleen spouting from the high seas, beckoning me to follow its path toward the mystical undersea Atlantis of satiation, and I, powerless to its song, like the Viking whaler on the hunt, commanded the crew within my legs and pursued with harpoon in hand. Its sweet siren serenaded my very soul, the dry stinging from my eyes began to subside as tears of joy gathered around the brim of my eyelids. My pace quickened, I skipped, I ran up toward the marina almost without feeling it and burst open the door of Woody's Wharf. I had reached Valhalla, my pursuits had not gone unrewarded, my hunger met with the banquet halls of Woody's equipped for a feast of a thousand years. I danced an exhausted jig of glee and proceeded to take my seat as I eagerly awaited relief from this starving purgatory I had once called reality.
It was the longest three minutes of my life. In this very important window of time, a missile could have been launched, a peace treaty signed, a cure for diabetes realized, but none of those were even half as important as the Spicy Puerto Nuevo Omelet and bottomless mimosas being hand-delivered to the brunch throne upon which I sat. The chime of the kitchen bell struck, my heart rate quickened, my hands shook in anticipation, my eye movement conflicted between professionalism and a raw animalistic urge to dive head-first into the kitchen.
At last, the greatest assortment of brunch food ever to grace my lips, crafted by Neptune himself, delivered to my mouth with his golden trident, had not just arrived, but was all that ever was, is, and will be. The fabric of time and space, in one instantaneous moment, warped, bent, and yet mattered not at all.
I emerged victorious, enlightened as a Tibetan monk, strong as a warrior, and with a pretty good buzz. I highly recommend the Spicy Puerto Nuevo Omelet, and the coffee is really good.