Making bread

Going through the HEB tonight, I kept having visions of tomorrow at the work Xmas party where I will surely see my coworkers leaving the bread I made on their plates, one bite taken, the rest discarded. Keep thinking of how they will be politely trying to not tell me how awful is the food I made and I'm remembering why I was so scared to make birthday cakes.

I didn't want to fail again. I couldn't take seeing that look on your face but you'd always try to eat enough of what I made for a good show, but I could see it. That's if I could get the food out of the pan. I think I'm the only human that had to throw out a bundt pan when making a box cake.

So I stopped. Stopped trying to cook, stopped at a lot of things. Stopped trying to look pretty, stopped trying to impress you.

Why did it matter so much to me that you were impressed? Why did I have to prove something this way? This was a flaw in myself, that I wanted you to tell other people how good I was at something, that I wanted to see the respect in your eyes. That somehow, through you, I would respect myself finally.

Ok enough trying to figure this out. Finn just walked in here smacking his poop snack and brought me back into the pitiful present. I yelled at him to get out so he checked his dick. That made me yell again, so he checked his butt.

He's very much a Finn Dog.

edit: like all my baking endeavors, I gathered my courage to go make bread (even though I was out of one of the ingredients, as usual) and found out that I have no mixer. I'd forgotten I'd taken it to your apt for the last pizza you would ever make me. So tomorrow, early, I'm getting up and going to HEB to buy bread.