Pancakes

You know, I’ve thought about getting up and making pancakes just about everyday for the past two weeks. Really, I’ve dreamed about those pancakes, practically raped by the real maple syrup that drapes over them sitting in front of me, waiting to be bitten. I think I have actually been awaken from positively delightful dream states of some kind or another, beckoned out of my unconsciousness by the elusive pancake-for-breakfast fantasy. I, in my daze, am always quite intent on making those pancakes.

But when I wake, and think about the whole “pancakes for one” idea, I stop dead in my tracks, cut two slices of bread and plop them in the toaster, as my reasonable, and, yes, frankly boring, unimaginative brain takes over and pushes the dull, almost spirit-breaking toast-for-breakfast reality upon me. Damn you conscious mind.

One of these days, the pancakes will win. They will get made. And, viewing this as some kind of sign, a signal from the other dimension, my unconscious mind will, in a great break, simply take over. Then it’s just melting clocks, pink elephants and straight-jackets from there.

Maybe the pancakes shouldn’t be made.