"Popcorn is the sentimental, good-time Charlie of American foods."

Today has been one of those days where all I wanted for dinner was a bag of popcorn. I don't even like popcorn. How can someone not like popcorn, you ask? Well, dear readers, I worked in a movie theatre for three glorious, teenaged years, and came out of the experience loathing even the smell of the beast. Since then, I have grown to tolerate the smell, but the taste is a different story.

Why am I craving it, then? Well, because, as much as I hate it, popcorn has somehow become my depressed food. When I'm feeling down, I eat popcorn. It doesn't make me feel better or anything (that's why I call it a "depressed food" rather than a "comfort food"), but it's just something that I always do. Such is the roll of a true depressed food.

Something even sadder than a depressed girl craving a food she doesn't even like? I always seem to fuck it up. I am a bad popcorn-popper; it's a chronic disease. I always seem to put the bag in the microwave and busy myself with another task while waiting for it to pop, forgetting it's in there and getting further depressed by the ruined "meal" and nasty burnt smell that permeates the walls of every room. Sometimes, when I'm feeling extra determined, I'll stand by the microwave and wait - just wait. Once the pops start slowing, I take the bag out, a sly smile marking my triumph. But when I pour the presumed perfectly popped puffs into a bowl, it turns out to be more than half kernals. Alas.

Tonight, though, I had a breakthrough in a formerly unbeatable pattern. I popped the perfect bag of corn. Not a single burnt piece throughout, nor was there even one hideaway kernal. Is it some sort of sign when you reach perfection in preparing your depressed food? Perhaps I should stop looking elsewhere for signs and focus on the one that's becoming more and more clear with every word I type:

On the first day of a new year, I'm writing an entire blog about my experiences in popping corn. WTF?