Steinbeck said it best. Some days are born ugly.
On such mornings, I know there's no coffee decoction in my filter. Because I didn't pour hot water the previous night. Because I fought with the significant other and decided it's his turn to make it, so there!
On such days, when I wake up I know the milk will boil over, no matter how often I check on it. I know I'll forget at some point and then hear the ominous whoosh as the white liquid pours forth like a mini geyser, bubbling and frothing, with that horrible burned-out aroma that's difficult to get rid of, never mind how hard you rub and wipe and clean.
On such days, I hang around, not wanting to do my morning jump up-and-down routine, not wanting the endorphins to kick in and make me feel better. I want to hold on to my anger, my sense of self-pity. I want to eat all the oily, fried and sweet food I can find. To hell with my healthy living programme. Maybe I want the food guilt to add to my list of grievances. So I can brood over it some more. Take it out of my head, look at it, and worry it, some more.
Such days are really quite ugly. It's a pity reading Steinbeck makes them better again.