I wake up still half-drunk. My campsite is a total mess. My cardboard matting is wet from the rain and falling apart. My blankets are strewn haphazardly in the mud. And the raccoons have dragged my backpack down the hill (bastards!). Its pitch dark. But after frantically searching through 20 different bags I manage to find a can opener and a can of mackerel.
But the can opener is a piece of junk. It opens the can halfway and stops working. The kittens can smell the mackeral so they’re really going nuts now, jumping all over me and meowing so loudly I think they’re going to hyperventilate. Which doesn’t help matters. I’m trying to pry the can open with my hands. And its one of those weird real life dramas where NOTHING is more important at this particular moment in time and space than getting this damn can of mackeral open. If only to shut up the cats. The fate of the universe is hanging in the balance.
Finally, after several lifetimes, I manage to pry the can open with a razor. Plop the food in the dish. And the cats eat breakfast happily ever after.
And I plop back down on my blankets. Its a triumph of the human spirit, I tell ya.