I hope you like chocolate chip cookies. Even if you don't like them, eat them anyway. Or at least look at them fondly for an hour or two. They contain the blood, sweat, and tears (not real ones, metaphor ones) of a hysterical woman.
Unlike most stories of emotional breakdowns, mine was a relatively short, steep climb to madness. Here's how it happened.
Last night, I stayed up super late eating delivery pizza and Oreos and watching reruns of the Dukes of Hazzard on cable (don't you judge me, it's a secret shame). I fell asleep in my PJs on the couch and didn't wake up until around 11am this morning. Well, I was having an Oreo for breakfast when I realized I didn't have any milk left to dunk it in. You may not know this (I've got this impression that rich kids eat Milanos instead), but Oreos are no good without a glass of milk. So I decided to do a little Sunday morning shopping.
While I was at it, I figured I might as well make a list, so I looked in the fridge and saw that my eggs were so out of date, they were about to hatch full-grown chickens. I put those on the list, too, along with a bag of sugar. This all got me thinking about how long it's been since I had any delicious baked goods. I decided to come home and make a batch of cookies from scratch as a surprise for you.
All was well, until I was on the way back from the grocery store. I must have been walking too vigorously, because as I was crossing the street, the thong came out of my flip-flip. I tripped and dropped the paper bag. Only four eggs made it out alive. Then a Chevy Malibu honked and almost ran me over.
Back at the hacienda, I mixed up the ingredients and put the cookies in the oven, letting their fresh-baked aroma wash away the memory of walking barefoot through Chicago, where drunk people pee right on the pavement. About halfway through the cooking time, I got a dish towel and reached in to rotate the sheet. My hand was covered, but I forgot about my arm. It hit the topside oven coils. There's nothing like the scent of burnt arm hair to offset caramelized sugar.
I ran over and borrowed my neighbor Edna's aloe plant. She got to talking about the weather and her grandkids and some kind of home remedy for her feet involving Vicks vapo-rub. I started inching towards the door. That's when I heard the smoke alarm. By the time I skidded into my kitchen, there was smoke everywhere and your cookies looked like hard, black charcoal brickettes.
So, in conclusion, I hope you like store-bought chocolate chip cookies. These bad boys came straight out of a tube of Pillsbury. It's the thought that counts.