You wake up one Monday. Which is today…
Because time is a flat circle and you’re trapped in it.
You feel like Sisyphus with a French press.
There’s a meme making the rounds again. Something about how if you just stop buying coffee out, you’ll retire by thirty five. Maybe thirty six if you’re a slow learner.
The math is suspect.
The hope is infectious.
You stare into the existential abyss of your kitchen sink, which is to say: a chipped mug, a lone spoon, the ghost of last night’s dreams.
No barista in sight. No artfully poured milk foam.
A sad, blank canvas.
You went out to buy a bag of coffee. Not the artisanal stuff, but the kind that comes in a brick, vacuum sealed like a sci fi body bag. You open it and inhale. Regret and hope.
It’s just you and the beans (store brand, because “single origin” is for people who don’t have spreadsheets tracking their emotional debt)
But you’re gonna get fancy now. You’re gonna mash an avocado. No, not with a rustic pestle, but with the back of a fork you found under the couch. Extra crunch comes from mystery crumbs.
Next up. Toast. Ignore the fact that it’s two days past the sell by. Mould is penicillin for the soul, right?
A yuppie snack from home.
But what’s next?
So you calculate your savings…
And at this current period in time you’re practically Warren Buffett.
The final step…
Cackle. Loudly. The neighbours will worry, but that’s fine. You’re retired now. You have time for that.
You imagine a future.
One where you’re lounging on a beach, sipping home brewed joe from a mason jar, the sun bouncing off your SPF 70 slathered nose. You’ve hacked the code. You’ve won.
Except.
The money you save? It’s less “nest egg” and more “slightly larger pile of lint in your bank app.”
The avocado toast? It’s a metaphor for the what the world would call “The American Dream”
Which is green, slippery, likely to turn brown before you’re done…
Your soul? Slowly transforming into a brunch ghost, haunting your own kitchen, muttering about “mouthfeel” and “umami” like a Food Network reject.
And just for fun. Let’s throw in a little horror, shall we? Last night, you dreamt your hand turned to toast. Crusty, brittle, oozing green. You tried to scream, but only crumbs came out. (Don’t worry, Freud would’ve had a field day)
But this wouldn’t be one of my regular ol’ emails without slapping in some advice of the writers variety now wouldn’t it?
Retirement is a mirage.
DIY coffee is a coping mechanism.
Avocado, like hope, browns quickly.
The only thing you’re retiring from is the illusion of control.
You eat your toast. You sip your coffee. You stare at the spreadsheet.
You keep writing. You keep making art. You try your best to make people smile, laugh, cry or at least get off the couch with a bit of motivation. Cause as the years pass. You realise that the things you enjoy will keep you sane.
Memes floating around telling you to quit eating avocado on toast and drinking expensive coffees out can get bent…
I had my fancy coffee.
I had my avocado on toast AND I also got all the words done for the day.
Why? Cause I needed it.
Stephen Walker
P.S. It’s taking a lot longer than I thought to get this old school forum and community built. There are so many little buttons and tweaks and permissions to hammer down. Just so that people can’t come in and ruin shit from the get go.