So firstly, before I launch into my amazing tale of disaster and woe, I must attach a personal addendum: I apologize profusely for my long-term absence from the blogging world. Ever since the new semester started and I didn’t have access to a computer in Newspaper class (considering that I’m not in that particular class anymore), I’ve basically been procrastinating, telling myself, “oh, that’s not funny!” or “Self, you think you’re clever, but you’re not.” I’d like to add one more to that list: Self, get your butt on the computer (not literally, of course) and entertain your many avid fans in the blogging universe. So here I am.

And now for my tale: I made cinnamon buns.

Sure, it’s not the most exciting thing in the world, but considering that my first period class is frozen in time for two hours-ish tomorrow due to ACT exams for the juniors (thank you, juniors!) and the peoples in charge (AKA faculty higher-ups) didn’t want us walking through the halls “disturbing them” (come on, we’re not THAT loud.) (Wait. Actually, we are), it’s a very exciting event for us who are not obligated to participate in such exams. (YES!)

Anywho, my first period (AP Psychology) decided we’d make a breakfast day out of it, so many peoples (seniors!) are bringing yummy food-stuffs to fill our bellies with tomorrow. I volunteered to make yummy cinnamon sticky buns. Which leads me to my story.

I had bought four 8-count cans of raw sticky buns (the lady at the checkout kinda checked me out, wondering what a classy girl like me (cuz I dress VERY classy-y) was doing buying a total of 36 raw sticky buns. I ignored her.) to please my fellow students with, and was proceeding to bang them against the counter at my house with all my might (because, as you know, that’s the ONLY way to open a pressurized cardboard container), and had been successful thus far at opening the containers quickly, concisely, and cleanly. That is, up until that doomed final can (cue dramatic music here.).

I proceeded as before: raising the can above my head and slamming it on the edge of the counter with all of the strength and raw force that I could muster. But it would not open. I should have taken it as an omen; a sticky bun container that does not open within the first three go’s is doomed to failure. But I did not read the signs that are now so blatantly obvious.

Continuing to slam the stubborn can of cinnamon-y goodness against the counter repeatedly, I finally decided to do a full body-weight slam against the counter in one final attempt to open it. I crouched, holding the can in both hands to stabilize the flight pattern, leapt into the air (much like a frog, except I’m white so I couldn’t jump that high), and used my 120-ish pound body to bring that persistent can crashing down upon the counter like a lightning bolt.

But I missed my target.

Welllll technically that isn’t true: the can hit the counter, just not in the desired location (i.e., in the center of the can). Instead, the top grazed the edge of the counter, causing the pressurized metal lid to come flying off in an almost graceful manner. And, much as a shaken-up carbonated drink will practically explode when the top is taken off, so did my beloved can of sticky buns.

Raw dough came flying through the new opening in the can, arcing through the air and landing in various locations all throughout the kitchen; one roll hanging off the chair here, two or three lying on the floor there, and another reclining on top of the fridge without a care in the world.

Needless to say, I felt like crying.

I gathered up the broken remains of the can and its contents and morosely carried them to the trashcan, bidding them a sad adieu as they made their final journey…to the trash.