What's the Worst that Could Happen?

It's a cliche, but a valid question. People really don't like taking chances. We stop ourselves from doing wonderful things, from taking leaps of faith each and every day because we are insecure. We fear uncertainty, and we certainly aren't going to expose our everyday lives to change if there's any chance that we will fail; or worse, succeed admirably, only to realize that it was a fruitless endeavor from the beginning. People let dreams slip away; they let opportunities that come along but once in a lifetime pass them by for fear of risk, even risk so petty that it can hardly be called risk. We are pessimists, and we do not deny it.

But why the pessimism? Why keep the glass half empty when we have so many opportunities to fill it? Why focus on what could go wrong instead of what dreams may come true if all goes right? 


Well, because sometimes the worst does happen.


Today for breakfast, I had the single worst piece of toast that I have ever eaten in eighteen long years of breakfast consumption. And when I say worst, I mean the absolute worst. (The faint of heart need not read on.)


When you think of toast, you think of something close to this color, right?

Right, me too. But instead I got this:

The knife fell from my hand. Pure, unadulterated blackness. The kind that is not simply an absence of color, but a presence of evil. My toast had been burnt, not by the hands of a mere mortal toaster but by the fiery hands of Hades himself. 

As I choked back tears, I tried to salvage some shred of hope for a delicious breakfast and put an end to this nightmare. I took the toast outside, praying that maybe in natural light I could see that this tragedy was mere illusion. But in this cruel world, no such dreams may come. I locked the butter away, deep into the fridge, and lay my dreams there next to them to die. What started as a simple breakfast quickly devolved into somber mourning and anguished crying. I could practically hear the Titanic theme music narrating my disaster. 

Soon, though, I had to bury the deceased, deep within the trash to assure that the aroma of burnt toast could not trigger any more tears of sorrow. As I sat in my kitchen, wrist-deep in garbage, wondering where my life had gone wrong, I began to ask questions. Why me? All of this punishment, and what was my crime? Trying to make toast?! There are sinners and criminals who roam the streets freely, while I, an honor student with prospects and a future and a beige 2006 Mazda, cannot enjoy a simple piece of toast? Was this my life now? Was it all downhill from here, and this was how the world decided to tell me? With toast??

It was then and there that I decided I could not let universe win. I wiped away my tears, swallowed my pride, and marched back over to the trash can to regain my hope. It was no longer about toast, it was now a matter of honor. As I dug inches deep, creating a grimy trench of spoiled pasta and various cheese products along the way, I finally found it. My worst enemy, my best friend. The one shot I had at redemption. My Holy Grail.

It was then, as I stared at the mess I had created and breathed in the air of processed foods gone rotten, that I began to have second thoughts. Honor is one thing, but I began to entertain the idea that this piece of toast could quite literally kill me. I sat in contemplation, then began pacing. I stopped, and asked myself one more question:

What's the worst that could happen?

And so I sat, and I began devouring the great beast, bit by bit. Though it was hard as steel and as tasty as a dead skunk, I pressed on. I had to. For honor. For glory. For everyone who has ever given up on their dreams, who have never tasted sweet victory in the face of the most dire circumstances. For those who have not lived. I ate, and in that one moment, glory filled my veins.

And then my parents came home. And there I was. Sitting on the tile floor, surrounded by garbage. Holding a half-eaten piece of toast that resembled coal, hoping that somehow, someway I could erase this moment from time so that, at the very least, my parents would not have to question what fatal mistakes they had made in raising me. Instead, they hung their heads in shame.

Long story short, this is why I can never be an optimist. This is why I'll always be glass half empty. Because no matter how well you've prepared, how strong you think you are, how much you've given to charity, sometimes you're just going to burn your toast.