mikes

i have sinned. i have committed adultery.
i have lain in the corrupt bed of american fastfood. that morally bankrupt gastronomic vaccum.
i have been unfaithful to one of the oldest and bravest and most beautiful cuisines that i have ever loved. and i do love her so.
but that lovely cuisine is a firery bitch sometimes, and she pushes me away. i cannot handle her. she is too much for me.
and so i tell myself that i was driven. i blame her. i seek excuse.
cheeseburger, onions and mayonaise, a fluffy sweet bun freckled with sesame, crisp and hot fries, coke in a pastic cup, my tongue cradling the straw, a single crisp curl of onion, battered and deep fried. the details keep circling in my mind. ketchup everywhere, on my face... my lap... my god, and the beyonce... and i shoke it shoke it like a polariod picture.
the shame. the filth.
out out damn grease. i cannot wash it from my hands.
i wanted to absolve myself. find some form of confession. but i wanted to smoke, too, dammit. to pull hard, draw the smoke deep into my lungs, feel the cool rush of nicotine once again. it is true. i must come clean with it all, right hear.
i am sorry spicy mango salad with your crispy dried shrimp. i am sorry oleang, you are rich and smooth and i love you so. i am sorry my passionate green curry. forgive me this one indiscretion (oh, and there were those chocolate chocolate-chip cookies this afternoon, and there is this italian place around the corner...)