Same Old, Same Old

My family has… interesting ways of doing things.

Take this morning, for example.

My brother and I sat at the kitchen table, nibbling at our morning bowl of cereal. Our father was at work by this time, but our mother was upstairs, doing who-knows-what.

In an instant, there was a muffled boom that shook dust from the ceiling. We shook with the house.

“Wonner wha’appen?” my brother mummbled through a mouthful of cereal. I shrugged.

A few minutes later, my mother came staggering into the room. Her face was blackened with soot, her hair standing on end like she’d sprayed it with hairspray while in a wind tunnel (which wouldn’t really surprise me, frankly).

She took a few steadying deep breaths, and we watched her expectantly. She held up a charred, twisted piece of plastic.

“I had trouble melting the butter again,” she huffed in exhaustion.

We silently nodded in understanding and turned back to our breakfast.

Same old, same old.

The End

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