Soy sauce.

I put too much soy sauce on my rice a minute ago, and I don’t usually do that. That made me mildly depressed because I remembered that the rice they served us in school wasn’t really all that great. And then I also remembered when I put too much soy sauce on my shitty rice back then, and the other kids made fun of me. They were right to. It was amusing. My packet had ripped beyond all repair. I made a mess. I am a mess.

I have the overwhelming urge to hurt you, as I’m sure you innocently marvel at my irreverence. Maybe it’s because of my rice. I’ll probably never do it though, reader. I don’t actually know you. You sure as hell will never know me, no matter how much I’m willing to divulge. But even then, I want to drive a stake through the part of your brain that manufactures all the melodramatic tactics that have gotten you this far. Right smack dab in the center of whatever gland produces the hormone that makes people have to talk you off of a cliff, when they’re on their death bed. All the self loathing and pity adds up on my time card. A handsome sum on my paycheck. All the fantasy. All the poker faces. Too many pipe-dreams, and I’m not a plumber.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, a stake through the brain or something. You’re a vampire, and half as romantic.

Or at the end of the day, I could just pour too much soy sauce on you, and remember why I hate salt.


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