Because I love yoghurt, you see, but the delivery system is less than ideal. Utensils are only acceptable in a dinner context – having to use a spoon every time you fancy a fruity snack is nonsense. If you had to use a knife and fork to eat a banana, the entire banana industry would collapse in on itself in one great big lickety-split of a jiffy. Let that be a lesson.
Of course, with a banana it’s easy to get away with using your hands. Not so much with a yoghurt. Seriously, you try eat a yoghurt with your fingers and you end up looking like some kind of crazy yahoo. Uncouth doesn’t even begin to cover it. Rascalous is closer, but that’s a made up word and who in their right mind has time for those in this day and age.
Anyway, this has all been a roundabout way for me to say that I really like Yop. I had one a minute ago and it was delicious. Forest fruits 4 lyfe, yo.
Saw that on the side of a bus this morning. There’s a list of priorities for you: are you breathing? pulse seems nice and steady? full range of movement going on? Good – then let’s get down to the serious business of loving the shit out of some bread.
I imagine a guy waking up in the morning and running through this little checklist. There’s a second of panic when he opens his eyes – am I still here? Life can be cruel, it can be snatched away in a split second, you might wake up and never know you’d missed it, and what’s most terrifying about that is that you might go down the plughole without letting bread know how you really feel. I mean, it knows, sure, it’s been established, but does it know? Does it really know? Does it feel it down at the base of its spine? Is there any flicker of a doubt in its doughy little head as to the full and true and pure extent of the burning, sickening, all-consuming, furious love you hold in your heart?
But the terror passes. Of course he’s still here. And of course it knows. He pulls back the covers, slips his feet into a comfy old pair of hollowed-out ciabattas and gets ready for the day.
I know. Hear me out.
The thing is: it’s you people. You know? My drafts folder is full of things, overflowing with things, that wouldn’t be worth throwing at you even if I knew you’d print em out, scrunch em up and use em for shoelaces. No, no, no. Not even if you printed them on coloured paper and put glitter on them, and were wearing custom shoes with snakes painted on, and the snake’s eyes were the holes for the shoelaces, and not even if you for some insane reason did decide to go out in public and Donatella Versace wandered up and said “Hey. Your shoelaces. Nice.” Because she would be lying. They are not nice.
But they will be. Yes. They will be.
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