Aperitif Anger And Then Some

What in the fresh hell mother of fuck is this cunty nonsense you call writing —

it isn’t,

it isn’t writing,

and when he called us in there to say it wasn’t,

it wasn’t a good idea,

we got rosy in the cheeks,

and not from pride or Preciousness,

but from being full on bumble pie,

the sticky kind,

the kind that stays in your teeth and shuts you up,

because that’s what it was made for,

that’s what it was meant to end.