One Thing After Another

By Leo thee Lemon

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Photo by Gleb Paniotov on Unsplash

One Thing After Another
By Leo thee Lemon

This was my morning.

So my kettle broke on Sunday.
I got one last boil out of it.
One final exhausted gasp before retirement.
Honestly respectable.
Fifteen years from now I hope somebody describes me the same way.

No big deal.
I knew I had another kettle stored away somewhere.
Basically new.
Clean.
Perfect.

But something inside me said:
“Don’t use that one.”
“Buy a new kettle.”

Which immediately annoyed me because I hate when my brain develops expensive opinions.

I looked at a few kettles online.
Then closed the tabs.
A decent kettle is weirdly expensive now.
Apparently boiling water has entered the luxury market.

And honestly the old kettle I had was excellent.
A real working-class hero.

I recently went through the exact same psychological spiral with my blender.
The blade assembly on my ancient Ninja blender finally started wearing out.
This blender is almost fifteen years old and still sounds like it could liquefy roofing shingles.

So naturally I started researching entirely new blenders.
Hours of it.
Specifications.
Motor wattage.
Consumer reviews written by deeply unstable smoothie enthusiasts.

Then I realized the “new upgraded model” I wanted was basically the exact blender I already owned with slightly shinier plastic and more emotionally manipulative marketing.
So I replaced one part instead.
Problem solved.
Mostly.

So I convinced myself this old backup kettle deserved a second chance too.
A good cleaning.
A little respect.
A redemption arc.

Then I boiled water in it.
Musty.

That horrible damp smell.
Not strong.
Just enough to ruin trust completely.

The kind of smell that makes you immediately think:
“Something microscopic is trying to kill me.”

Monday evening became Kettle Rehabilitation Night.
Cleaning vinegar first.
Boil.
Still musty.

Then bleach in hot water.
Tilted around carefully like I was trying to disinfect evidence at a crime scene.

The smell faded enough that I convinced myself it was probably fine.
Which is a sentence people say right before things become significantly less fine.

So I filled my favourite Owala water bottle.
Half filtered water.
Half kettle water.

I like my water warm.
Not tea.
Not hot.
Just strangely warm.
Like somebody whispered “soup” near it briefly.

I’m extremely specific about things.
Painfully specific.

If you buy me a gift there’s a high probability I will secretly hate it.
Not because I’m ungrateful.
Because researching products is half the dopamine experience now.

I will take a bus across town to buy the exact version of an item I want.
Correct colour.
Correct lid.
Correct texture.
Correct tiny meaningless detail I suddenly decided was spiritually important at 1:14 a.m.

Some things I know immediately though.
The Owala bottle was one of them.
Instant connection.
No research spiral.
No comparison charts.
No thirty-seven open tabs.

I bought it within minutes.
Which honestly scared me.
That level of decisiveness feels unnatural now.

I will never buy another water bottle brand again.
Probably.
Unless another company emotionally manipulates me better in the future.
Which is always possible.

But I digress.

Right.
The musty water.

So I filled the bottle the night before.
Slight musty smell.
Not great.

I dumped it.
Boiled water in a pot instead.
Refilled the bottle using what I consider the ideal water temperature ratio.
Still slightly musty.

Then this morning happened.

I woke up.
Took a sip.
Disgusting.

I drink a lot of water.
An unreasonable amount honestly.
At one point I genuinely considered becoming some kind of water sommelier before realizing that wasn’t a real job and I had simply become insufferable.

So now I’m irritated.
I dump the bottle again.
Start inspecting everything.

That’s when I realized the silicone seals absorbed the smell.
Of course they did.
Silicone absorbs odours like traumatic memories.

Time for baking soda.
Sodium bicarbonate.
NaHCO₃.
The dusty white powder every adult suddenly becomes emotionally dependent on eventually.

I dump a pile into the kettle.
Hot water into the bottle.
Silicone seals inside.
Everything bubbling away like I’m operating a deeply disappointing science lab.

Then it happened.

I’m holding the bottle in my left hand while pouring more sodium bicarbonate into it.
Suddenly it reacts violently.
Foaming upward.
Overflowing instantly.
Usually this reaction is only from mixing bases with acids.

Boiling water splashes onto my left hand.
Burns immediately.
Sharp stinging heat.

I panic slightly.
Step backward directly into the puddle on the floor.
Now my dirty house Crocs are leaving footprints across my apartment.

At this point I actually stopped and thought:
“What in the Home Alone is happening here?”

So naturally now I’m kettle shopping again.
Because apparently the universe had decided subtle messaging wasn’t enough.

The night before I had already looked at a Ninja precision kettle online.
Good price.
Near where I was going anyway.

This morning I took the burn as divine confirmation.
Or consumer brainwashing.
Honestly hard to tell now.

I also started pricing replacement Owala bottles.
Forty dollars minimum.
For a water bottle.
Human civilization peaked centuries ago.

The first baking soda treatment didn’t work.
So I escalated.

I coated everything in thick sodium bicarbonate paste.
The seals.
The bottle.
The sink.
Possibly part of my soul.

Luckily it worked.
No more musty smell.
Good thing too because I was slowly dehydrating myself out of pure stubbornness.

One thing I will say about Owala.
Replaceable parts.
Excellent design.
I respect that deeply.
Most companies now design products like they’re hoping you throw them directly into the ocean after six months.

So now I’m asking myself:
Was I supposed to buy the kettle yesterday?

Because I wouldn’t have found this better kettle yesterday.
Did all this chaos happen just to force me into buying a kettle?

Did I ignore some strange internal pull the first day so reality escalated the situation like a disappointed manager sending a follow-up email marked IMPORTANT?

And no.
I did not invent this story to justify buying a kettle.
I have the burn mark to prove it.

Hopefully it doesn’t blister.
Though unfortunately now I keep hearing “Blister in the Sun” in my head every time my hand stings.
Human brains are unbelievable.

The strangest part is that I randomly came into enough money later that day to completely cover the cost of the kettle.
Exactly enough.

Days like this genuinely make me feel like the universe is conspiring around me sometimes.
Even when the morning itself felt rotten.

And honestly I handled it pretty well.

Yes I swore when I burned my hand.
Obviously.
Pain exists partially to make people say words they normally wouldn’t say in front of children.

But I never lost my mind over it.
I kept moving.
I looked for reasons instead of spiraling.

Maybe burning my hand delayed me just enough to avoid something worse.
Maybe not.
I’ll never know.

But I’ve started believing there’s very little value in feeding every inconvenience with rage.

I just wait for balance now.
Good swings.
Bad swings.
Eventually things move back the other direction.

Maybe the whole morning was a test.
To see how I would react.

And maybe the reward was this story.
And a new kettle.

I try very hard not to let one bad moment poison an entire day.
That feels important.

I didn’t sit around feeling sorry for myself.
I kept going.

Honestly that’s probably the most important part.

And despite everything.
I still think today was a good day.

Keep scrolling for the Afterthought.

The main articles stay free. That matters to me.

I don’t want the important stuff locked behind paywalls and “community access” that just means a credit card and a login.

But I do need a space to go deeper. Less polished. Less filtered. More honest.

So the main piece will always be free.

What’s below is optional.

An extra layer for people who want the behind-the-scenes thinking, the psychological undercurrents, and the parts that don’t fit cleanly in the public version without breaking it open completely.

Think of it as director’s commentary for the emotionally overcaffeinated.

Afterthought

Afterthought

I think the best part about this entire piece is the fact that I was never defeated by my day.
Even though from the moment I woke up it was one small annoying thing after another.
Musty water.
Burned hand.
Baking soda explosion.
Purple Croc footprints across my apartment like I was documenting the scene of a very low-budget crime.