Aug 2018
i want to meet a very highly acclaimed french chef
but i want him to be ugly.
i want him to recognize the feeling of others walking past him and having not a clue how great he is, but making a remark on how he probably doesn't **** very much.
he'll want to turn to the speaker and yell with the force of 1000 chinese kettles screaming
"you don't know a thing! i make the best truffle oil angel hair pasta around, the girls can't keep their soft silk hands off of my body, plus you can’t even fathom the amount of money I make.”
in reality
he wishes someone were there to taste him instead of the food he makes
he wonders if his tears will make a good replacement for the sodium in the Alsatian Bacon ****
the ticket bell keeps ringing but his phone never does
and
despite all of the praise he gets, all he can ever picture is washing the dishes while She fills her belly up with his Cherry Gateau Basque
“the table in the mahogany section particularly liked their Steak Diane! great work today.”
he knows it doesn’t matter how good he can cook. he will always be ugly and ugly pairs with lonesome as much as tender lamb with root vegetables.
at night when the kitchen closes and everyone has gone home, he pretends he has his own tender lamb.
a Woman with soft skin and a heart that has been cooked at 280 degrees before
a Woman who doesn’t complain when he gets angry at himself for slicing his finger
a Woman who tells him to stay in bed while she makes him scrambled eggs and hot black coffee
And maybe she’ll feel a bit inferior with what she prepared but he’d eat it all up and act like it was the best **** meal to ever pass his lips
even better than the Foie Gras he had in France
but all of these thoughts remain dreams and he is ****** back to reality as the garbage disposal sputters and his soft tender lamb is washed down the drain with the rest of the food particles
and then it’s just him and his kitchen and the fluorescent lights and
the scent of grease.
but i want him to be ugly.
i want him to recognize the feeling of others walking past him and having not a clue how great he is, but making a remark on how he probably doesn't **** very much.
he'll want to turn to the speaker and yell with the force of 1000 chinese kettles screaming
"you don't know a thing! i make the best truffle oil angel hair pasta around, the girls can't keep their soft silk hands off of my body, plus you can’t even fathom the amount of money I make.”
in reality
he wishes someone were there to taste him instead of the food he makes
he wonders if his tears will make a good replacement for the sodium in the Alsatian Bacon ****
the ticket bell keeps ringing but his phone never does
and
despite all of the praise he gets, all he can ever picture is washing the dishes while She fills her belly up with his Cherry Gateau Basque
“the table in the mahogany section particularly liked their Steak Diane! great work today.”
he knows it doesn’t matter how good he can cook. he will always be ugly and ugly pairs with lonesome as much as tender lamb with root vegetables.
at night when the kitchen closes and everyone has gone home, he pretends he has his own tender lamb.
a Woman with soft skin and a heart that has been cooked at 280 degrees before
a Woman who doesn’t complain when he gets angry at himself for slicing his finger
a Woman who tells him to stay in bed while she makes him scrambled eggs and hot black coffee
And maybe she’ll feel a bit inferior with what she prepared but he’d eat it all up and act like it was the best **** meal to ever pass his lips
even better than the Foie Gras he had in France
but all of these thoughts remain dreams and he is ****** back to reality as the garbage disposal sputters and his soft tender lamb is washed down the drain with the rest of the food particles
and then it’s just him and his kitchen and the fluorescent lights and
the scent of grease.
