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This box of waffles did not come from the garbage.  It came out of my freezer.  I wish I were joking.

Searching for them after an impassioned “I NEED A WAFFLE” plea from a 3 year old, I waded through bags of frozen chicken, vegetables, meatballs, sausage, and a variety of frozen prepared meals that will only likely be consumed in the most dire of global catastrophes. At the back of the freezer cowered this pathetic, ragged box of cardboard.

Shockingly, there were several waffles that somehow managed to survive the constant daily bludgeoning it clearly received.  These are resilient waffles, folks.

I threw this sorry box of mangled pulp on the counter and started to giggle a little.  And then laugh.  And in moments I was doubled-over, crying from the hilarity that this box produced.

I think I realized that the condition this box is in reflects my life in a surprisingly accurate way.

You feel and look like hell sometimes, but somehow, inexplicably, you survive.

My life, the pulverized waffle box.

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