sǝuoſ ǝuıɥsunS

Today the light and moody-monster came for breakfast. Trouble is he arrived about 9 hours early. He’s never been kind to me, always convincing, always pathetic, I swear to funk he’ll never change, but somehow I love his ugly face and scowling mouth so much that I give in, like an idiot and invite him in for oatmeal.

He is kind and sweet, or maybe at least quiet while I sprinkle raisins, and brown sugar into little bowls, but by the time I pour the milk into the pitcher and reach for the wooden spoon to serve the oatmeal he’s criticizing me again, looking at my ass as if it were Jessica Simpson’s, and thinking unpleasant thoughts. To be quite honest, any thought in the same brain that might compare my buttocks with Jessica Simpson’s, however complimentary, is downright unpleasant.

Whatever shall I do? I’m too tired for this game. I don’t want you sitting here at my kitchen table, looking horny, clearly hungry, and irritiating me. Yet I feel this swooning sentimental feeling for something that you used to be, or someone I mistook you for in the parking lot of that club they tore down last year. Do I throw you out, and cause a row so i can go back to bed? Or shall I simply serve you up a double helping of oatmeal instead?

Later, in the sun lit kitchen, alone, I did the dishes and listened to him snore. Disgusted with myself, but somehow still feeling a little sentimental.