Lasagne

I get no respect. From where I sit now at my keyboard I look right to the lasagne I have reheating. Food reheating is so depressing. Food cooking is wholesome and family and good times and all that hoo-ha.

Regardless, this is not my point. I look now to my right, to my lasagne in the microwave. It’s cooking, but it’s not spinning. The timer counts down: 2:30 seconds. It peeks at me through the glass, 1:40 seconds. Fuck you, it says. I don’t spin for no one, and especially I don’t spin for no fuck like you. 35 seconds. I stare, it stares back, I fear for my unborn baby and wonder what happened to the whole microwave-cancer thing. I pay attention to the PSAs, though I’m neither pregnant nor female. I know the lasagne knows that I’ve read the propaganda, that I believe the lies, that I fear the microwave. But I shouldn’t. I won’t. I fucking shant! I drop my pants and press my balls against the warm glass and yell: “spin you fucker, spin.”

Standard

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