You asked me where the mustard was and I looked at you: no, not now, If you only knew — the mustard, god! I was making a salad yesterday (remember, I told you about the cucumbers going bad) and the dressing was supposed to have mustard, and red wine vinegar, and — well that doesn’t matter, the point is the mustard was gone. so I ordered Dijon on one of those delivery apps and a bag of Doritos to make me feel better about such a stupid order, which it didn’t because I still felt dumb and wasteful and privileged (who orders an 8oz jar of mustard with cool ranch chips to be priority delivered at 1pm on a Saturday?). meanwhile, my salad sat, on the counter, and I didn’t eat it, while the shopper struggled to find the right mustard (no, not spicy brown, no, not horseradish cheddar wtf), and I barked through the app because I was hangry and rushing around my apartment trying to get my laundry done before the mustard arrived, cursing the stupidity of delivery apps that claim to be convenient and really just hook you with things you want but can’t actually get and I was turning around while grumbling about my need for instant gratification and feeling guilty about giving into it when I hit my head on the side of the clothes closet. i started stomping the floor in frustration — bright red, hangry, bitter, guilty, and frustrated that I’m so petty I would explode just because I knocked my head into the most awkwardly-constructed closet ever (and also because mustard is a victim of supply chain issues). just then my shopper shows up — no warning, because my app is a piece of sh-t — and I opened the door and yelled at the 16-year-old Latino boy for being late but he didn’t acknowledge my frustration, just handed me my chips and mustard (spicy brown) in a bag with a hole in it, grinning as though there was nothing he could do about supply chains and broken apps and holey bags and I closed the door and slumped to the floor and cried for a good five minutes while I clutched my mustard and chips.
I’m a terrible person and life is just too hard. That’s why you can’t ask me about mustard.
