It’s been another day in the bizarre saga of my life post-apocalypse, and today, I’ve come face-to-face with a grim realization: my partner really did run my life. This epiphany hit me hardest while I was scouring the fridge for lunch. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t pretty.
Opening the fridge door, I’m greeted by a dismal array of leftovers that paint a perfect picture of my current existence. There’s a couple of beers, which I’m saving for when the situation gets even more dire (if that’s possible), two stray eggs that look as lost as I feel, an open bag of bread that’s more air than slices, and some wilting vegetables that seem to be dying before my eyes. The sight of those veggies makes me think of our relationship—once fresh and vibrant, now drooping and lifeless.
Among the culinary treasures, there’s also a jar of pickles, some old cheese in a bag that’s more mold than cheese, and the omnipresent condiments: mustard and tomato sauce. Not exactly the makings of a gourmet meal, but hey, I’m nothing if not resourceful.
After a thorough assessment of my options, I decide to create a lunch masterpiece with what I have on hand. I crack the two eggs into a pan and scramble them, adding a generous squirt of mustard for flavor. I toss the sad, wilting vegetables in, hoping they might magically rejuvenate with a bit of heat. Another spoiler alert: they don’t.
Next, I take the last few slices of bread and toast them. They come out more like croutons than toast, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I spread some tomato sauce on one slice and slap on a sprinkle of the crusted cheese, scraping off the questionable parts and hoping for the best.
The pièce de résistance? A few pickles thrown on top for that extra crunch. I step back and admire my creation: the ultimate sad bachelor meal. It’s a sandwich that even a possum might turn its nose up at, but in my state, I’m oddly proud of it.
I sit down to eat my “gourmet” lunch, trying to convince myself that it’s not that bad. With each bite, I’m reminded of how much I took for granted. She always had fresh meals ready, a fridge stocked with real food, and an uncanny ability to make even the simplest ingredients into something delicious. Now, I’m left with Frankenstein meals and a growing sense of despair.
As I chew on my mustardy, soggy vegetable concoction, I’m still plagued by the same question: why did she leave? Every day, I’m discovering just how much of my life she kept running smoothly, and with each revelation, I feel a little more like a slob. The apartment is getting messier, my hygiene is slipping, and my meals are devolving into something out of a survival reality show.
But here’s the thing—I’m not giving up. I may not have all the answers, but I’m determined to keep going, to find some semblance of order amidst the chaos. Maybe I’ll figure out how to cook something edible, maybe I’ll finally get a grip on this solo living thing, or maybe I’ll just keep sharing my misadventures with you all.
For now, I’m off to finish my masterpiece lunch and figure out what the heck I’m going to do for dinner. Wish me luck.
She Took Everything 
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