Garbage mouth. I thought you called me that because of how I swear. Too often, a pan dropped on the toe or a red light taking a long time to turn green. But it wasn't that, you said, I can't hear the what swears you say because when you open your mouth garbage comes out. The refuse of the world, regurgitated by your speech. Disgusting, rotten. Garbage mouth.
I can't cook too well either. You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs--bullshit. Whatever I make is broken. Wholeness doesn't exist. What kind of ideal is that, perfection? There would be no point if perfection were attained. There may not be any point anyway, but at least when things are broken there are endless possibilities to keep a body occupied. I put barbed wire in my frying pan and it didn't scratch anything. You have to know how to handle these things, broken though they may be. I don't use gloves. It feels better when the skin is touching.
Sugar and methamphetamine. Impossible luxuries for a garbage mouth who can't cook. All the burners on, the oven is hot, and everything tumbles from my mouth. The acrid smell fills the kitchen as it heats up, burns. I will stay in this inferno until I am empty. After, I will gather the ashes and leave them on the steps of your cathedral.
