suckin

Man these recent posts have been suckin. I feel fat. I feel owned by dogs and suburbanites. Nobody wants to hear that though. Who cares how I feel? Literally no one. Well, my doctor a little bit. It's his job.
The moment has arrived. The burgers are thrown on the grill. The pan hates the meat, sears it, tries to burn it. The meat flips, and flips again. It's salty. It can take it. Then the house smokes. It seethes. Why don't the alarms go off? Call 911! (Please don't, this is a crowded theater) It's ok. The electric stove in the sad village in the lost Triangle gives up. Cools down. Rests. Circa 2000.
Then we slide the glass door open to disperse the smoke. In fly mosquitos by the thousands? No butterflies, butterflies everywhere, butter flies on the bookshelf with the Bertrand Russell and the Matisse prints, butterflies on the piano, playing the mandolin, singing of their lost loves and their timeshares in the Pyrenees, butterflies in the butter. Redundant. Feeling fat. Owned by God and satin nabbers.
They won't shut up. How are you? Not me