I hate that people use forks to eat cake. It baffles the sensibilities and titillates the scorn muscle. Forks are forks for a reason – you’re supposed to pierce tough areas and rip them apart. Stab and lift. You can not stab nor lift a cake. Satan has a pitchfork, and he most definitely does not use it to shovel particularly large Hellcake. Spoons are perfectly suited for the task.
But no, here I am, washing a goddamn fork in my own house, because my friends came over and failed me, all of society, and perhaps even the whole of human evolution. Because of my friends, I am thinking about life. Dishwashing always makes my mind wander, but no matter how lost it gets it always winds up at the same bar, drinking something Irish and yelling drunkenly about the past. Smoking a bitter cigarette because that’s what bars are for.
Life is bad for your health, get out of my smoke.
I don’t want to hear about life from my mind. My mind is a writer of bad romance novels in a cheap suit, weak of wrist when I need it to pull and timid of spirit when I need it to push. Somehow it always finds the time to berate me, and I hate it. Get out of my head.
My wrist is strong, I can lift tea with it. Tea in a can. The front plastered in peace signs and picket signs. Revolution is in this year, strong. Guess the corporations have caught on to the trend. Or perhaps they feel it too. The air smells like new blood and iron. My teeth hurt thinking about it.
You can’t can collective subconscious, can you? Shrink wrap it and appeal to the romantic in all of us?
It has to be real.
But I guess if you can get people to eat cake with forks, you can get hipsters to drink Peace Tea.
I think the world is ending.