Where is the milk? Like everything else it probably just escaped my mind. Lost thoughts must saunter away to some invisible landfill somewhere to wait for their parents to come retrieve them, akin to a lost-and-found or an orphanage kind of idea. I cannot remember anything anymore. The notion of attaching a name tag to the front of my shirt has crossed my mind, I must admit. Some of the simplest thing like dairy products or one's own name can evade a person, almost cunningly.
After searching through the messy fridge, which is messy because of course cleaning is always continually swept underneath other issues and forgotten, I find the sneaky milk hiding behind a mound of to-go containers. I do not by any means pretend that I am a Martha Stewart type who, I don't know, might have the slightest understanding of her culinary way around the kitchen. Then, after I make sure the milk stays on the counter and doesn't run away, I dig around in my cabinets for a pot to warm the milk and melt the chocolate to make a hot and creamy beverage to thaw the winter chill off of my body.
The chocolate bars sit ready on the stove because I must have them at my fingertips in case I get a severe craving for them. As I snapped them into the steamy milk, a wonderful scent that I expect to fill heaven wafted to up to my face and comforted me like a good friend. I danced over to the cupboard and retrieved my favorite mug and filled it with the frothy liquid. After, turning off the burner, putting my ingredients away, and turning off the light in the kitchen I go back to my blank canvas that was taunting me and practically forced me to procrastinate and abandon. That is the last thing I remember.
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