In advance you said, or at least you thought, that I'd taken up all the room with my canny head. Two in a pod, one continuously angry, always proud. Dumb subjectivity full of her father's angst. 'My favorite computer' is probably what you said once, in telling the past in words sprouting out.
No one was embarrassed when another lit up a fit, ownership. Birthday, fifth.
No one regrets having not eaten most of what I prepared--distracted? Not enough cheese, all of it melted into the very noodle, gone--overcooked?
Not quite sure. Surely nothing seemed it; I believe taste had run out, into the pan. It was a nonstick but the hot dogs were fine. Beside them, rather catty-corner, are three boxes of mac n cheese. However, Valvita. And cooked all together it's not like a stew; it's not at all like itself, it's a congealed angry mob. You know chemicals like to fight, if not each other then well fine, in you.
What has no taste must be polluted, or so Ad Busters would have us believe. See the terror in the flashy ideology, the ads disbursed for free: the editors here, theorists or inspired thereby, want to slice into corporate identity, bring on the empty center.
A very small family of ideas that must be repeated for the things they do to the shape of my prose: billowing out, yes, but contained by a catalog.
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