when it comes to emotions, and love.
i like to consider myself a slow-cooked serving of corned beef.
not the one mother makes, no. the one that i would make.
if i even cooked, which i don't.
as a matter of fact i don't have many redeeming qualities when it comes straight down to it.
i like to pretend a lot, but pretending never gets you very far. that's like making a chopping motion
with your hands over a pot and when someone asks what in the fresh hell you're doing
you look at them and say
"i'm chopping carrots."
as i've learned, meals never get very far without the right ingredients.
when it comes to emotions, and love.
i am a slow-cooked serving of corned beef.
broiling with gross bubbles of awkwardness and the natural deterrent of the fat that sort of
seeps out of the meat when it cooks long enough.
i'll have to wait a long time while i'm cooking
wonder if i'm gonna be good. satiating. enough.
yeah, that's right, folks.
i'm turning corned beef poetic.
i am a slow-cooked serving a corned beef.
it takes me a while to boil inside of my pot and there's a lot to offer inside of it,
it smells all kinds of good except for the times where the cabbage and,
no one likes the cabbage. i know i don't. but the nasty shit is in with the good shit and
there's nothing you can do about it because nasty is in my recipe.
i just hope someone can stomach it one day, and i can trust that they won't puke when my
timer finally goes off around them.
but even with that hope, i still don't even know how to make corned-beef. like i said,
i can't cook.
it will take me a while to learn,
just like love will.
