Soap Opera Stomach

Holy crap! It’s been eight days since I last blogged. It’s amazing how quickly the sands of time pass through the hourglass. As the sands of the hourglass, so are the days of our lives. I hate soap operas. I haven’t really watched them much in my life but a few times I’ve been around when other people have them on their television sets and I for some reason known only to Big Bird watched part of one. Here is a metaphorical take on how soap operas make me feel on the inside of myself.

After waking up from a nightmare where the Packers are victorious in six consecutive Super Bowls, I roll out of bed and look at the clock—3:33am. Cool, three threes. I never get to see that because I’m always sleeping (I don’t even realize that I could see it any afternoon because of the distress of my dream and the feeling that something is terribly wrong that I can’t quite put my finger on). I lay back down, but fearful of resuming my dream I am unable to sleep. I toss and turn for a couple hours before finally getting up.

When I make it downstairs Martha Stewart is there and has prepared a breakfast of Mozzarella sticks, refried beans, and peanut butter pancakes. She says, “You’re not leaving until it’s all gone. I’ve been to prison, don’t mess with me muchacho.”

So I eat it all, guaranteeing myself a day of indigestion, which begins to kick in more quickly than I thought it would. On my way to work someone rear-ends me, crumpling the bumper of my sweet Olds Alero. They run away and so I know I’m stuck with the bill.

That’s how soap operas make me feel. Those and the OC.