At about 9pm every night, you sit in front of ‘Diners, Drive-ins and Dives,’ letting copious amount of barbecued meat based conversation wash over you, thinking, ‘have I actually achieved anything today?’ You start to watch cheese melt over smoked ribs with a resolve that tomorrow is your day, that from 8am onwards you will be a machine of pure productivity. When that tomorrow is about to expire, and you watch Guy Fieri shovel food into his mouth as if he is actively trying to provide you with an image that sums up your existential crisis, you feel a sense of guilt that is quickly repressed by the potentially productive delights that lay in wait the following day.
At about 10am the next morning you’re seized by a kind of panic born from the previous day’s guilt that you aren’t doing enough, but the thing is, you don’t know what to do. You try and decide on what will make you feel like a real person, on something that will make you feel of worth later in the evening, but you get stuck.
You crush black sesame seeds to get out your frustrations while swigging your fifth green tea of the day just to get past the lethargy. You bump into an acquaintance on the street and are flummoxed as to what to say when they ask you what you’ve been up to, so you just smile until your face aches, and you don’t stop smiling until you get back home. You roll yourself out and stick yourself in the fridge so you don’t end up melting.
At 9pm that evening you start to reflect on the day’s success, and just as you’re about to be consumed by the familiar guilt you remember that there is now a jar of matcha and black sesame spelt biscuits in the kitchen. Suddenly today doesn’t seem like such a failure, and tomorrow feels like it might actually be okay.