Why did I ever want to be a baker? I groan and curse the blaring 4:30 am alarm that cuts short my slumber.
Why would anyone choose to live here? I shiver in the dark as I try to move two feet of snow off my car so I can leave for work.
Why does fresh-baked bread smell so good? I soak in the waft of warm, delicious steam when I open the oven door, serenaded by the crackling crusts as they hit the cooler air.
Why can’t people just mind their own business? Teresa and Gary are at each other’s throats again and Karen tries to feed me the gossip for lunch in the cramped break room.
Why does the last hour of the shift always feel the longest? I check the clock every two minutes to see if I can go home yet, but the clock seems to have started moving backwards.
Why not grab a treat to take home? I can’t leave those tasty-looking pear caramel tarts behind, I’d just pine for them all evening.
Why is my winter coat so snug? I could swear it fit me better last winter.
Why should I cook supper when I’ve been hard at it in the kitchen all day? I scroll through takeout menus salivating at the choices.
Why can’t that infernal moron put a proper exhaust on his truck? I shake my fist at the window when he drowns out the crucial moment the killer is revealed on my TV.
Why did I stay up so late? I’m going to regret this in the morning, I just know it as I snuggle down under the covers.