On Wednesday night I was working on an order for Friday morning. 12 Cranberry Oatmeal bars, 12 Vanilla Lavender Shortbread cookies, and 30 Orange Glazed mini Poppyseed muffins. I had prepped everything before I left for the day so that I could do it all quickly and painlessly.
Yeah, that didn't work out.
I took the shortbread out of the fridge and started cutting it. You have to work quickly with shortbread because it gets soft very easily. Especially considering the temperature lately, and the fact that my house doesn't have AC. My knife wasn't sharp enough. The dough just fell apart, and then I did too. I felt like I couldn't do anything right. The shortbread getting soft was somehow a reflection not only on my competency as a baker, but my worth as a human being. I sobbed. My mom came to help me. I'm like a small child. It's humiliating.
I don't think I'm capable of doing anything worthwhile. Even if I did this project flawlessly, it wouldn't matter. Because this isn't some worthy, noble thing. It's me trying to raise money to selfishly help myself. 100% selfish.