My mother’s fridge is so colourful, she could AirBnb it out to gay pride.
I was looking in it earlier and realised. There is only one safe way to consume yogurt. Not at all. In the pot, responsible as fuck.
Take fruit. You can’t trust fruit. It requires fruit receptacle, fruit cover, fruit nappy. Emergency damage control, if you will, should the entire world lose its head, we enter a Groundhog Day of relapse-remission Armageddon and all the raspberries re-group en masse to exert full throttle spite on mankind. We reject your oppressive regime of polyethylene asphyxiation! No more! Unchartered territories they may be, but we will persevere, so just you watch us as we defile your shelf with our festering pollute.
Yogurt plots no such coup. Out the pot though, there’s no saying where that shits ends up. Down shirts, regardless of age, Chernobyl-splattered across counter tops leaving nothing but misery and trails of white culture in its wake- is yogurt the ultimate metaphor for the fate of Western civilisation?
It’s that time of night. I’m escaping escapism.
Sitting here, demanding a refund on life and the main course hasn’t even arrived yet. I’m one of those, aren’t I. Well, the lobster raviolini were all right, but the plate wasn’t warm I was decidedly underwhelmed by the hue of the glaze. Too ochre.
I’m so nouveau-me, it hurts.