You know that an experience is great when it makes you want to write. No, I did not climb a mountain. I did not spend three months alone in Europe. I just made a cup of hot chocolate from scratch. It’s glorious.
My boyfriend and I always go on obscure and unprecedented grocery runs. And every time, he gets chocolate for us. However, for the only time that he threw some chocolate into the basket for himself alone, he got the wrong chocolate. You know, karma just being a bitch even before you decide to be one.
So he got the very, very dark one. So dark you can’t eat it. It has been sitting in my fridge for quite some time now that’s why I decided to do something with it. For the same principle why you talk to flowers for them to grow. Or to your hair. Whichever is less bizarre.
I made hot chocolate with soy milk and coconut sugar. I gave it a quick whirl in my blender for some texture and froth. Delicious. I would pay for this. In fact, I already paid myself for making this through writing (through writing? Fucking Obligations and Contracts). Writing again. How I miss making something out of my incoherent thoughts and realizing something about myself in the middle of it all. Jokes on you, self.
I don’t exactly know what this attempt is for. Attempt to slow down. With hot chocolate that I made from scratch and some cake from my sister’s birthday party. Without actually thinking about the consequences of sugar. Without actually thinking about the consequences. Without actually thinking.