Cooking in my kitchen

I’ve been writing for hours. I plunged in deep to ‘bullshit mountain.’ I accidentally deleted it all. I always say things are deleted so you can write them better. I had my former friend read my newer writing and she confirmed my suspicions I became a better writer. Maybe every writer needs to write non-stop for a year to produce a bad manuscript to hone his craft. I did it.

One day when I was reading the newsfeed on facebook it hit me that everyone was fake. Facebook was like their kitchen window covered with plaid d****s. In reality they all cook tv dinners and take pictures of them and describe wine they splurged on. It is one fake façade of ugly kitchens. Trust me I was already standing out on facebook.

So I described my kitchen. The walls are red. The floor is concrete. There aint no damn d****s. There aint no damn table. Yet my kitchen is standing room only. It might be because my kitchen is hot and I’m cooking in panties and an apron. But men stay for the food. They also stay to watch me burn men and kick them out my door.

My fridge is old fashioned but my stove is top of the line. Men in my kitchen know my grandma’s roast beef has been getting tender for hours. On one burner I have my aunt’s special spaghetti sauce. The third burner is alfredo with chicken. The final burner is always filled with my never ending supply of homemade pasta. That is how you feed hungry boys. That is why they sweat in my kitchen. Your best just to come dressed in your boxers.

Now you know what I mean if I tell you I’m burning boys out of my kitchen. Littlewanker got hit with a cast iron pan for his lack of respect. Other men waiting to take his place to get my food laugh at his ignorance. I feed anyone that is hungry. The pasta fills the belly. The men in my kitchen are waiting for a paper plate of my grandma’s beef roast, mashed potatoes, gravy and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.

So I dscribed my kitchen. The walls are red. The floor is concrete. There aint no damn curtains. There aint no damn table. Yet my kitchen is standing room only. It might be because my kitchen is hot and I’m cooking in panties and an apron. But men stay for the food. They also stay to watch me burn men and kick them out my door.

My fridge is old fashioned but my stove is top of the line. Men in my kitchen know my grandma’s roast beef has been getting tender for hours. On one burner I have my aunt’s special spaghetti sauce. The third burner is alfredo with chicken. The final burner is always filled with my never ending supply of homemade pasta. That is how you feed hungry boys. That is why they sweat in my kitchen. Your best just to come dressed in your boxers.

Now you know what I mean if I tell you I’m burning boys out of my kitchen. Littlewanker got hit with a cast iron pan for his lack of respect. Other men waiting to take his place to get my food laugh at his ignorance. I feed anyone that is hungry. The pasta fills the belly. The men in my kitchen are waiting for a paper plate of my grandma’s beef roast, mashed potatoes, gravy and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.

Damn I had to edit this post. I tried to be short and sweet. I didn't explain that this is clearly a metaphor. This is an allegory. This is prose. Two damn men wished to eat my cooking. They met the actual food. My paper plates have the illusion of a full meal but I feed with words. I hate cooking. My kitchen is gorgeous we have a granite counter top my parents made. In terms of cooking a gourmet meal it's not an option. But I can make you think about what you post on this forum and your facebook. Start using your damn keyboard. Let people in. Everyone eats in my kitchen. Only special boys get pot roast. We all sit indian style on the cement and chat about bitches, men I burned and the stories I told methodically stirring gravy that is always lumpy.