The Rogue Potato

If there's one thing I've apparently still not learned after three years of dorm living, it's "don't leave left over bad food lying around."
Yesterday's veggie potato quickly became today's cubicle mystery stench, as I came in this morning and discovered that all-too-familiar smell of soured food permeating my workspace. Of course, like a seasoned veteran of food-hunting, I quickly located the stinking potato (the remnants of which I'd placed in the garbage can a little after 4:15 pm), and hustled it off to the break room garbage can, whose roomy interior I'm sure will accomodate and nurture the growing potato far better than my cramped little wastebasket will. Don't get me wrong, I do feel guilty about sharing the olfactory wealth with my other coworkers, but I'm of the belief that if you truly love your precious god-given gift of a rotten potato, you should try to provide it with the very best of your abilities, and at this point in my life, that meant giving it up to a better home.
Of course it was stupid of me to have gotten that potato in the first place - I can't say I have any excuse. I was broke, and my judgement was impaired by cheapness. Still that's no excuse. Some of you will tell me that I should've listened to my better instincts - at the very first sign of inedibility, I should have taken the proper procedures and gotten refrigerative care. The services were free, and right there in the break room. But, I was scared. Scared that I would be judged by my coworkers for my disdain of the bargain cafeteria food. I got what I payed for, that's for sure. But by the time I'd really started thinking about it, it was too late. Again, the best thing I could've done at that point was put it in my wastebasket *before* 4:15 pm, when the janitors come by to empty them, but it slipped my mind. And well, at the very end of the day, when I should've taken it to the break room garbage can, it was just so very much trouble.
I never told anyone about my bad potato. Just wrote it down in my live journal. Who was I going to tell? My parents would never forgive me. Never trust me again. And my friends? They'd all say "I told you so." I felt so alone.
I went to therapy for my post-potato syndrome, and although it got better with every session, I'll still never forget the stench of my cubicle when I walked in this morning, and knew just how bad that veggie-stuffed potato had gotten, without even having to open the box.
I've thought about starting over again. A new day, a new lunch hour. And so today, I headed for the border. That's right. I went to Taco Bell, and did some burrito grande penance. While it won't fix everything in my life, I know that deep down in my heart, that potato's going to a better place after all, and so are these tacos supreme. They may not be perfect, but darn it, they're edible, and they're mine.

Further bulletins as events warrant.