How I long to be someone who just doesn’t give a fuck about a broken tea bag.
For really, what is so bad about a broken tea bag?
A few errant tea leaves sucked into your stomach won’t kill you.
Why does it bother me so?
Small. Petty. Mean. That’s the extent of its annoyance factor. No more, and likely less.
I could alway re-strain it if it is the aesthetic that proves so bothersome.
But maybe that’s not it.
Maybe I like the annoyance.
The bother of it all.
The agitation that reminds me there are things worth getting upset about, and things decidedly not.
This is one of the decided nots.
And so I pocket my little bit of anger, burying it like a burnt bagel, letting it bide its time until something bigger comes along.
Because something bigger always comes along.
{The Virgo has spoken. The Perfectionist retreats. The Harmonist knocks.}
