What is the versatile autobiography of this bountiful of rice boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain that was the one edible source of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things connecting me to my roots, those things I can't help but bleach in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame at the examples of my flesh and earth, "those National Geographic cavemen," all the time being the zoo animal, being blindfolded and caged by these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food that I consume like a vacuum, this merengue and bachata that I so happily shake my *** to; but nowhere did I sign up for these commandments that I was appointed based on the location that I popped out onto.