A bad day is coming. Look for a newer post, if there is one then I lived and all suspense can be … suspended. I had my cereal this morning, and I’m out of honey; I used the last of it.

I will get some more today. I almost certainly will not die doing so. I will not go fishing for the trope of feeling suicidal on my birthday. I see that lumpy milestone coming a mile away. But honey … dear Lord. Running out is not the problem, it’s already happened, just a few hours ago, and I’m fine. I’m FUCKing fine.

But later today I will be in a supermarket and I’ll be in front of the shelf that has the honey on it. Fuck I don’t even want to have to go. I’ll choose from the selection. Are they not all the same? I don’t care. Yellow box? It makes me want to cry, they’re just bees, right? It’s the time that gets me. A birthday, that’s yearly, but running out of honey … I don’t even know how long it’s been. A month? A few? A year? How long does it take for me to finish a packet of honey, how much time has passed since I last stood at this shelf like a dickhead wondering which honey is the right honey for me. What have I done while that the last batch of honey slowly drained from it’s stupid upside down packaging?

I don’t know. I don’t care.

It’s inevitable, I will buy more honey today, and I will buy more honey when I’ve finished this. And another after that.

Is it even called a packet?