So …
(Yeah. I did it again. And yes — I know it drives some of you crazy when I start a post like that. You’re welcome.)
I’m standing in the kitchen.
Pajama pants.
One sock.
No plan for the evening other than carbs.
The popcorn machine is whirring like it’s powering a small village.
We’ve got one of those countertop poppers.
Oh yeah. We fancy in Sumstine-land.
And as I’m watching those little kernels spin around in their pre-buttered oily mosh pit, I start thinking…
There’s always one.
One kernel.
Just sitting there at the bottom.
Unpopped.
Unfulfilled.
Unbuttered.
And I don’t know whether I feel sorry for him…
or if I want to slow clap.
That respectful slow clap.
Think about this guy.
He was planted.
Watered.
Harvested.
Processed.
Bagged.
Shipped.
Purchased.
His entire existence has led to this moment.
This is his Super Bowl.
He’s been on the bench his whole life waiting for Coach to call his number.
And when the heat comes on?
Nothing.
No pop.
No explosion.
No glory.
Did the pressure get to him?
Did he choke?
(Scott Norwood has entered the chat.)
Was he ready to yell, “THIS IS MY MOMENT!” only to get boxed out by some overachieving kernel named Brad who peaked in the first 30 seconds?
Now he’s sitting there.
At the bottom.
Surrounded by fluffy, buttery success stories.
Do the other kernels look down at him?
“Hey buddy, couldn’t handle the heat?”
Is he the social outcast?
The lone raisin in the potato salad of life?
OR…
Hear me out…
Is this little guy an absolute legend?
Was he spinning around in there like,
“Oh no. Not today. I am NOT becoming a snack for a guy in pajama pants.”
Did he plant his tiny corn feet and declare,
“I reject your buttered conformity!”
Is he the rebel?
The outlaw?
The kernel equivalent of “I will not comply”?
And maybe — just maybe — he’s not scared.
Maybe he’s stubborn.
Like dig-your-heels-in, arms-crossed, lower-lip-out stubborn.
Maybe when the heat turned up he didn’t panic.
He squinted.
He leaned into it like,
“That all you got?”
Steam building.
Pressure rising.
Every other kernel screaming and exploding into compliance.
And this guy?
Nope.
Not moving.
Not expanding.
Not participating.
He’s the toddler in the grocery store refusing to get in the cart.
He’s the dad who won’t ask for directions.
He’s the guy who says, “I’m fine,” while actively bleeding.
The oil’s spinning him around and he’s just muttering,
“You can’t make me.”
Did his momma kernel whisper to him as a seed,
“If all the other kernels jump into a hot air vortex…”
Was he inspired by Independence Day?
“We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We’re going to live on!
We’re going to survive!”
And then one final,
“WHO’S WITH ME?!”
…before stubbornly cementing himself to the bottom like a tiny corn paperweight.
So now I’m standing here.
Holding a bowl of buttery overachievers.
And one tiny, hard little question at the bottom.
Is he:
A) A total failure who couldn’t fulfill his life’s one job?
Or
B) The ultimate bad-ass who looked destiny in the eye and said,
“Make me.”
Or maybe…
C) Just the most stubborn little jerk in the entire batch.
That’s where I’m stuck.
And honestly?
I still haven’t decided.
But I do know this —
I’m still going to try to bite him and immediately regret it.
My Take on Life and Events 