cake...
It's a big wish, to not be forgotten.
The way things were going, you'd think that it would be slightly more than your average day of tromping the domains of utter mediocrity that so often make themselves your home. A home where the sofas are not much more comfortable than Bloody Mary's iron maidens. A home where the hinges on the depressing age-blackened oak doors screech like oil-boiled inmates of the Salem witch hunts.
If it made sense, it really wouldn't anyway. Not when you expected that they'd at least remember how important it would be to you. That a little extravagance once in every so long a while is not too much to ask. Rather than, for instance, hop on by, stomp all over you, and then hop off. Like over-fed rabbits; grotesque, misshappen, furry things that have lost their cuteness and now a serious threat to your aesthetic sanity.
Slightly worse than all this was the idea that if their delusions of you alone was worse than in the company of those as lovable as an onion-and-bean infused skunk were maintained as just that: delusions. But they wouldn't let it go, and beat their mostly not unwelcome but definitely unneeded presence into a mocking pattern in your skull.
She didn't help it one bit. You'd think having a lover would make you happy, or at the very least, a sense of contentment. Obviously, you lost your wits somewhere in that hazy hormonal frenzy. She obviously didn't care much for your unspoken wants. Most of the time she spent chewing off your finely groomed patience, and then spitting out the remains all over your face. Then she'd smile sweetly to deflect your barbarian rage, and then start all over. She was expensive too.
In this chaos, one lone thing stood out in your otherwise darkened synaptic expanse: just go get cake.
The way things were going, you'd think that it would be slightly more than your average day of tromping the domains of utter mediocrity that so often make themselves your home. A home where the sofas are not much more comfortable than Bloody Mary's iron maidens. A home where the hinges on the depressing age-blackened oak doors screech like oil-boiled inmates of the Salem witch hunts.
If it made sense, it really wouldn't anyway. Not when you expected that they'd at least remember how important it would be to you. That a little extravagance once in every so long a while is not too much to ask. Rather than, for instance, hop on by, stomp all over you, and then hop off. Like over-fed rabbits; grotesque, misshappen, furry things that have lost their cuteness and now a serious threat to your aesthetic sanity.
Slightly worse than all this was the idea that if their delusions of you alone was worse than in the company of those as lovable as an onion-and-bean infused skunk were maintained as just that: delusions. But they wouldn't let it go, and beat their mostly not unwelcome but definitely unneeded presence into a mocking pattern in your skull.
She didn't help it one bit. You'd think having a lover would make you happy, or at the very least, a sense of contentment. Obviously, you lost your wits somewhere in that hazy hormonal frenzy. She obviously didn't care much for your unspoken wants. Most of the time she spent chewing off your finely groomed patience, and then spitting out the remains all over your face. Then she'd smile sweetly to deflect your barbarian rage, and then start all over. She was expensive too.
In this chaos, one lone thing stood out in your otherwise darkened synaptic expanse: just go get cake.
posted by quicksilverlining at 9:34 PM
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