The Bloody Doors Off

Spoons.

Spoons!

Who’s holding?

I’m in the market for spoons.

I’ve run out.

The drawer is overflowing with the bastards.

But I’m bereft.

Just one spoon.

Please.

I don’t like feeling like this.

It feels… selfish.

I’m the kind of person who tries to help everyone.

Only I sometimes falls short.

That makes me work harder.

I start second-guessing.

My nose gets out of joint at an imagined slight.

And because I’ve used up my daily supply of spoons.

I stew in this calorie-free, carbonated anger, resenting myself.

Because I think I’ve upset them.

And maybe I have.

But I don’t have the spoons.

Can someone pass the Splenda?