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OH PLEASE, ROSE. Understand. I know that you do. I know it all too well.
I remember brightly-lit January days spent in your kitchen. The foils in your khaki shorts from when you were 14, now lapping your thighs like the tin foil upon a Thanksgiving ham that has been picked apart for sandwiches for precisely 8 days, currently upon the great, blubbery trunks of your shapely 20 year-old figure. A staccato breeze whips across the floor directed from your very drawers, landing upon the linoleum with the force of a sock full of rubber bands. It raps upon my heart's devices like a seagull calling for its life-mate in the ecstatic signature of birthing one of its pearly ovum.
Superfood.
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There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
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