Just the Skin Thanks

Sometimes I just want the good stuff. Sometimes I just want that part that you know everyone is just trying to get to anyways. Shit doesn't always come together. Life isn't all entrees. Not everything ends up a nice whole pizza pie. Nope. Sometimes you hold the pizza up and let gravity make that cheese mudslide all the way down to your greased up paper plate. And then you ball up all that gooey cheesation till it resembles a collection of old gum. Then you just pop that cheese hunk right in there and feel it breathe. Your mouth overflowing with cheese. Teeth frantically working to slice it into smaller ribbons so you don't choke to death on an adam's apple cheese wad. Yep. Sometimes you just want the cheese. Throw the red smeared pizza dough away. Other times you just want that KFC chicken skin. Whole flags of it, all sewn together, looking like an edible map of some brown and crunchy land.

Friend and fellow blogger, Riley, brought over some lovely lovely pastries yesterday. Two perfectly paired red velvet slutcakes. They were all plump and dark, all dressed up for the dance. Topped, no smothered, in a cream cheese frosting. Asking for it. Riley and I tagteamed one of them. Cake and cream and all. But really, the both of us kinda just wanted to go down on them. Go for the cream. You know. Menace over top of them. Face looking down on that gorgeously detailed evening gown. Just looming, resembling a giant about to put his teensy-humans captives in a bottle with a horsefly.

Just wanted to swoop down. Mouth humongous. Eat all that cream cheese up. Leave them slutcakes bald for the prom.

Sometimes you just want the cream, the cheese, or the skin. But you're too ashamed to own up to such a filthy appetite. So you eat the whole thing. All the parts. And you pretend it's your entree. A balanced meal.