i would just like to point out that i have yet to read this novel. it’s one of the stories in the book i checked out from the library but i haven’t gotten there yet. though, i feel like the title is entirely irrelevant to meals and that it talks about something like elitism or the meaning of life or something.
i am quite a superstitious person. just yesterday, i took a walk around my neighbourhood and a black cat stopped ahead on my right side, and i stared at it for a full minute, as if to say “i dare you. walk. in. front. of. me.” [i then spent the next few moments battling myself over whether or not it actually crossed my path and decided that the way it trotted across the street was too diagonal to count as a full fledged crossing] i refuse to walk near sacred seals and go out of my way to avoid ladders, as if one is suddenly going to put itself over my head, but everything i do is with the motto better safe than sorry.
i just finished tennis tryouts, and i attribute my success to the continuation of a pattern. over a course of around fourteen days, i perfected the art of winning a match. it had nothing to do with cardio or strength training but entirely consisted of making sure i dressed, ate, and thought the same every day. and that i watched the australian open the night before. my breakfast of champions rarely failed me, and if i lost my match i blamed eating my breakfast sandwich on the car or drinking regular milk instead of soymilk. i’ve always been a careful and mythical person, but my mom found this disturbing to say the least. i tried to compare myself to one of the olympic athletes who listens to the same songs in the same orders before each game but then i realized i’m basing everything off of luck and belief rather than hard work. a sad realization, i now see, but i’ll believe what i want.