Recently I went through a great rite of passage, a trial of will and self-esteem, a Judgement, if you will. The live-in fella decided to be a lives with his mom, not so much my fella. Since then there have been headaches about my 100% rent increase, how to eat food i make before it goes bad (had a bad incident on trash day today emptying containers of homemade channa saag,) and who will feed my cat if i am away. The worst and most inconvenient of these trivialities of the break-up, though, is the loss of a microwave. I rarely buy microwavable food. As much as I like hot pockets, every time I eat one I see myself in the future, 300lbs and testing my blood sugar every 20 minutes. But the microwave is indespensibly linked to one of my most oft-eaten food catagories; leftovers. I probably only cook three or four times a week, and the rest of my lunches, dinners, and often breakfasts are variations on those themes, reheated in different ways. Sphagetti sauce becomes pizza, channa saag becomes dip or quesadilla filling. Getting a pot on the stove to rehash something i m already tired of seems like a smack in the face to ease. The other problem is that, like toilet paper and toothbrushes, I feel that a microwave is a right. It is like a sink, it should come with the house. Hence, instead of hauling myself to Goodwill, sucking it up, and buying a damn applience, I am sitting here complaining about how it should never have left. Yeah, thats right. That microwave should be mine.