I hate that you and I could have so much fun and yet we don’t.
Every unsatisfying day ends up with me wiping you.
We were supposed to go on all these adventures together…
You are just an inanimate, dull being with nothing to say to me.
Oh, the irony… you’re supposed to provide me sustenance and yet you exhaust me.
I would love nothing more than to leave and never see you again.
Go explore the world of touch, smell, taste … elsewhere.
You clean up really well, but that’s a rare sight.
I resent your company on a Friday night, when I should be having fun.
You’re what’s wrong with this picture.
You’re what’s vital yet dreadful.
You’re a heavy burden.
Being around you feels like a chore.
I would love nothing more than to cut you loose.
You’re who’s silent when I’m gazing into a void of regret.
You’re what’s muted, whether things are going bad or swell.
You’re so phony, although you seem nice.
There is not much to you when it boils down to it: a collection of pent-up things; a mess waiting to happen.
I regret all the time I’ve wasted in your company.
I resent not having anywhere else to go.
I resent having to use you.
Although using you is the only thing to do.
I need my nurturing from elsewhere.
I’ll get my nurturing elsewhere.
If only for a day.
You, dear, is what’s wrong with this picture.
tuttysan © 2010
Ode to my kitchen.