Sometimes I’m gripped by anxiety.

Not the kind you get when you are on the verge of getting fired, no, no.

Imagine you are having breakfast with Selena Gomez. Why are you consuming food with her, you might ask. Instead, my question would be, ‘why are you not choking?! Man, that’s Selena Gomez, for God’s sake! You should be breathless, you tasteless donkey!’.

Anyway.

Let’s say you are either having breakfast with Selena Gomez or whomever you consider – erroneously – the most beautiful woman on the planet. Or man. Or whatever. You know what I’m saying.

Ok, now, you go to the bathroom because your bladder is exploding. However, the joint you are currently in has a spotlessly clean bathroom. For some crazy reason, you are terrified to dirty even one tile with your filthy body fluids; God knows that, lucky as you are, an employee might find out and tell Selena what kind of a disgusting nasty beast you are.

So, you sit down to deliver a number one.

But that’s when it happens.

Another impulse takes over your body. Your weak flesh, not being accustomed to sitting on the throne without getting the signal to open all dams, wants relief.

But you can’t.

You are around the clock.

Selena Gomez is waiting for you.

Now, you are fighting with every fiber of your being to keep in what is trying to go out at all costs.

In this colorful metaphor, I just compared my infatuation for Lucinda to a fat number two, and the fattest at that!

The sitting down on the throne, instead, is me spending time with her when I know I should be doing something completely different. We can’t happen. I just caught some feelings for her because… well, because.

So, I shouldn’t be sitting here, but I should be spending time with my Selena Gomez who, in this metaphor, is… baking?

Yeah, I know. This didn’t come out the best way, did it?

I thought it would turn out differently. But it is what it is.

Sometimes I start stories and I don’t really know where I’m going.

This is the result.

Baking is my Selena and I know I should be getting back to her as soon as possible. But that big, fat, lovely, beautiful, wondrous brownie turd would feel so good if I just let go a little bit.

Ok, I think I’m bringing this metaphor a bit too far, to be honest.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Lucinda stares guiltily at me while she downs a steak for breakfast.

“No, don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to wreck my waistline,” I answer while looking at the three-pounder that she’s devouring without blinking.

Am I sure I like the girl slurping a three-people worth of steak for breakfast?

“Don’t look at me like that. I need to eat something like this, or I’ll need even more for lunch. Magic takes a lot of energy out of you.”

“Miss, your side of marinated peppers,” the chef clearly knows Lucinda and he’s now bringing a huge plate of oily peppers.

“Thank you, Aligium,” Lucinda nods.

“A pleasure, miss.”

That’s like, I don’t know, two pounds of peppers?

Steak and marinated peppers for breakfast?

What’s for lunch? Dead rats?

I look at her scarfing down the steak as you would look at a lion pouncing on a gazelle. I am fascinated, horrified, and even a bit turned on.

“You must spend an awful lot of money on food,” is the first thing I’m able to say after watching such a gory show in silence for five minutes.

The predator is now on the last remains of her meal and looks at me with much of the peppers’ oil on her chin.

“Mh,” she nods and shrugs.

She even gives a little burp as she uses a napkin to clean her little mouth, before raising a thumb up toward the chef in the distance.

How can I not love this woman?

My mother always says I’m a pig because I cannot eat with my parents’ poise. Listen, if you don’t cut my spaghetti, I make a mess. If you don’t want me to make a mess, I have to get close to the plate and try to avoid the whipping effect you make when you suck in the spaghetti too fast.

AH!

Yes!

Now I remember what I was thinking about before, when I met Lucinda!

“I still didn’t get a class as a [Baker],” I tell my lovely and hungry hyena, “I worked more than a few days there, but I didn’t get anything like that. Any idea why?”

Lucinda looks pensive while she ponders the question for a bit.

“Do you have any other class?” she asks.

“[Mage].”

Her eyebrows go up.

But not in the good way.

She’s not surprised, she’s just…

“Oh, good for you, good for you.”

Pity.

She’s just feeling a bit of pity. She already knows I must have tried hard to learn some magic, didn’t she?

Look, I can make a mean [Light], I think.

“Maybe you don’t want to be a [Baker]? If you don’t see yourself as that thing or if a big part of you doesn’t consider [Baker] something that you are, that might be the answer. It’s common knowledge. If you got a class for everything you did, you would be swarmed with classes. Instead, you tend to acquire classes toward which your spirit leans.”

Oh shoot.

What is this psychobabble?

I can’t even try to get a class without the universe trying to give me a lesson in my rotten psychology.

Look, Lady Luck, or whoever is pulling the strings, I don’t want to know. I’m good. Really. Thank you. And if you don’t want me to be a [Baker], I’ll just go be a baker.

“Shall we go?”

Lucinda asks me while she fishes for some coin in her robe.

I nod and get up, ready for the red curtains to open on our new play.