Breakfast Massacre: The Day Hunger Turned My Apartment into a Crime Scene... (Comedy).
I Moonwalked with Breakfast Through Mayhem: The true story of my finger vs. breakfast.
Dear Readers,
Some people wake up to the smell of fresh coffee. Some wake up to the sound of birds chirping.
I woke up to… hunger.
Oh, what a morning it was, folks. Picture this: It's 8 a.m. on a crisp, unsuspecting day, and there I am. Me, myself, jacob, sprawled in my bed like a hibernating bear who's just been poked with a cattle prod. Most days, I treat breakfast like that awkward acquaintance you nod at but never invite over; it's more of a myth than a meal. My "first bite" usually crashes the party around 3 p.m., when my stomach finally sends out an SOS via growls that could rival a lion's roar. But today? Today was different. Today, my gut decided to host an impromptu rave party inside my stomach, complete with throbbing bass lines, flashing strobe lights, and a DJ (who sounded suspiciously like my inner voice) screaming, "FEED ME, YOU LAZY HUMAN! FEED ME NOW!"
I bolted upright, rubbing my eyes, wondering if I'd accidentally swallowed an alarm clock set to "starvation mode." And in that hazy, half-awake, crazy look, the only thing that could silence the rebellion in my belly was the holy grail of breakfasts: fresh, warm bread slathered in rich, soul-hugging vegetable gravy. You know the kind, the stuff that tastes like lazy Sunday mornings, grandma's and mum’s hugs, and childhood memories wrapped in carbs. It was wholesome, it was hearty, and it was calling my name like a siren song from the depths of my empty so so-called fridge-less kitchen.
Without a second thought, I grabbed my phone and ordered it. Early. Way too early for a guy whose idea of "morning routine" is scrolling through memes until noon. I felt downright adult-like, responsible even. "Look at me," I muttered to myself, puffing out my chest. "Jacob, the early bird, catching the worm, or in this case, the gravy train." Little did I know that train was about to derail spectacularly in my stomach, and I'd be the one tied to the tracks.
And in that moment, the only thing I could think of was breakfast, bread with some rich, soul-hugging vegetable gravy. The kind that tastes like childhood memories.
I didn’t even think twice. I ordered it. Early. Too early. I was practically proud of myself for being responsible and and what could I do? I was f******g hungry. I missed the valley food. I still do crave it.
But oh, little did you know…
The delivery guy showed up faster than you can say "express lane to disaster." It was like he'd teleported straight from the restaurant kitchen, plastic bag in hand, steaming with promise.
I snatched it like it was the last ticket to a Sunburn concert or a Tomorrowland concert, precious, irreplaceable, and full of potential thrills.
The aroma wafted out: spices dancing in the air, veggies whispering sweet nothings, bread begging to be devoured. My mouth watered; my stomach did a victory lap.
But here's where the plot thickens, like that gravy I so desperately craved.
Normally, I'd have my trusty scissors at the ready for such a delicate operation, snip, snip, and voila, feast unlocked. Today? The scissors had vanished. Poof! Gone like a magician's assistant who'd had enough of the act. I tore through drawers, rummaged under the sofa (where I found a lost sock, three pennies, and a remote I didn't even know I owned), but nada. They were probably off on vacation, sipping piña coladas on some tropical island, laughing at my predicament.
Impatience gnawed at me like a rat on a cheese wheel. My hands trembled, part hunger, part hanger (that's hunger plus anger, for the uninitiated). "No scissors? No problem," I declared boldly, channelling my inner Tom Cruise Mission Impossible stunt. "I'll use... the knife." Not just any knife, oh no. I marched to the kitchen and selected The Beautiful Knife. This thing was a masterpiece: shiny chrome blade, sleek yellow handle, sharp enough to slice through atoms or butter. It made me feel like a Michelin-star chef... or a samurai ready to duel a dragon.
But? The yellow jacket knife had different plans…
But something piped up again, it’s about the voices in my head: "Jacob, using a knife on plastic? That's like bringing a bazooka to a pillow fight. Proceed with caution, or I'll have to narrate your obituary."
I ignored the voices in my head, of course. The moment felt straight out of a blockbuster movie. Time slowed down as I gripped the knife, the plastic bag quivering before me like a villain in a showdown. I imagined epic music swelling, maybe Don Toliver’s with Doja Cat “ lose my mind from the movie F1 movie teaser. "Here we go," I whispered, channelling my best action-hero vibe.
SWOOSH! The knife plunged in, slicing through the bag with surgical precision. Victory! Or so I thought. But momentum is a cruel mistress. The blade didn't stop at the plastic. Nope, it kept going, from one side through the other side, straight into... my finger. Not a nick, not a scrape. This was an epic, Shakespearean tragedy of a wound. Hamlet had nothing on this; my finger was the star-crossed lover, and the knife was the poison dagger.
Blood didn't drip. Oh, heavens no. It erupted like a volcano at a fireworks show. It sprayed in glorious arcs, auditioning for a role in a Quentin Tarantino flick, think "Pulp Fiction" meets "Kill Bill," but with more clumsiness and less cool dialogue. The floor got a generous splatter, turning my tiles into an abstract art installation. The sofa? Oh, it joined the party, its cushions now sporting red polka dots like a fashion disaster. The laptop, poor, innocent bystander, caught a crimson shower, its keyboard looking like it'd typed out a horror novel in real time. Even the walls weren't spared; they got streaked like a bad tie-dye job from the '70s.
And in that chaotic symphony of red, my brain short-circuited to the absurd: "This is it. Michael Jackson's 'Blood on the Dance Floor'... live and uncut in my living room to my bedroom!" I could almost hear the beat dropping: "Blood on the dance floor, blood on the knife..."!
And to top it all off, I was getting a video call with my priest father Malcom.
I didn’t panic? Fainting like a damsel in a soap opera? Not my style. I stood there, clutching my throbbing finger, surveying the carnage like a general after a battle gone wrong. The room was a crime scene: red rivulets trickling down furniture, pooling in unexpected places. My coffee table book on "The Art of War" was now ironically bloodstained, talk about a plot twist.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I turned it into my makeshift backstage dressing room. I cranked the tap, thrusting my hand under the water, but that only amplified the artistry. Blood swirled down the drain like a Leonardo da Vinci painting in motion. It ran down my arm in rivers, staining my sleeve like I'd arm-wrestled a ketchup bottle and lost. My legs? Splattered like I'd waded through a paintball war. My shirt? It looked like it'd survived a zombie apocalypse, or worse, a tomato fight at La Tomatina. And get this: even my head caught a rogue drop, turning me into a punk rocker with unintended red highlights.
By the time I was done, I looked like I’d just returned from war. Not the kind of war with guns and tanks. No, this was a war with breakfast.
And since I was a certified first-aider, I started rattling off first-aid tips: "Elevate the wound! Clean with antiseptic! And wish I could pass out on my sofa, rather than calling the emergency services... or at least play some motivational MJ tracks to wake me up." but anyway i thanked the Lord, "Thanks, Jesus, for saving my finger. By the time the flow slowed to a trickle, I wrapped my finger in gauze like an ancient mummy unearthed from a pyramid. It throbbed like a bass drum in a concert, but I knew it'd heal. My blood's got that superhero quality, fast recovery, courtesy of good genes and God's impeccable design.
Emerging from the bathroom, I faced the aftermath: my living room resembled a CSI set after a particularly gruesome episode. The sofa was guilty as charged, its fabric screaming "Exhibit A." The bed sheet? Draped over the chaos like a reluctant accomplice. Books on the shelf bore red fingerprints, as if they'd been pawed by a serial reader with a grudge. And my laptop screen? It flickered judgmentally, pixels glaring like disappointed eyes.
That's when the laughter hit me, big, belly-shaking guffaws that echoed off the bloody walls. After all these years of skipping breakfast like a pro, the one day I decide to adult-up and nourish myself with wholesome bread and veggie gravy... I transform it into a thriller directed by Tim Burton, my favourite director.
But let's dig deeper into the lesson here, because every epic saga needs one. Some might preach, "Jacob, be careful with knives, they're not toys!" Others could chime, "Always locate the scissors first, you impatient oaf."
But I say, the moral is… always invite your subscribers to the afterparty.
Because if I’ve got Blood on the Dance Floor in my house, why not make it a music video?
So here's the invitation, extended to you all, my dear subscribers and podcast listeners: Come over (virtually, of course, clean-up's still in progress). Let’s Crank up Michael Jackson's "Blood on the Dance Floor."
Blast the volume until the neighbours complain. Dance like you've just survived a skirmish with a sentient plastic bag. Groove like your finger's throbbing but your spirit's unbreakable. Remember, life's gonna hurl weird mornings your way, hunger raves at dawn, missing tools, accidental bloodshed. Sometimes you'll be the knife, slicing through obstacles. Sometimes the bag holds it all together. And sometimes... yeah, you'll be the finger, taking the hit.
Blasting the music right now.
See ya later
JacobM
Fuel my creativity, one coffee at a time! ☕ Support here: BuyMeaCoffee