24/04/2014 - I'VE NEVER MADE PORK CHOPS BEFORE

I’ve never made pork chops before, I’ve been boneless and far too adult. The other day I found a super sale and decided to buy them in spite of my small staring and completely different strain. I doffed my hat to the till assistant and browned her behind from either side just to show the seriousness of the matter, the recompense for black pepper and sugar and chilli powder. I left shortly after that time to seek my feature in a boil, the boil of a nameless, blameless child who can’t cook any damn thing. Most of the time when I cook pork it’s tough. It makes my wisdom teeth hurt.

Wish me well while the teaser is flavouring up. Endure the thank goodness and small, hobbled remarks about goddesses and their new episodes of family mobsters. Ship it off to Guatemala, France like a brusque real estate salesman who was cut on forced comedy. Some people like slow paces and coming to a head for velocity and a quarter. I’ve always done that strategy of turning books on their sides and putting them on top of everything else for the sake of habits and contribution to stress.

My pork chops were self-sustaining soon enough, making decisions about life-saving procedures and what constitutes ‘little by little’ and how far one might move it out per each step. Cups climb up to the sky, my cups and a few of the mugs that were left behind by my cherubim lover who physically looked at fans of personalities and emulation of those personalities. You can throw them, I can throw them and even eat off of them when the noodles are heated and sufficiently forgotten about. I cannot bow down anymore. It was good to get to know the pots and the pans and their individual power companies that turn out with bills and 48 hour notices of some thickness and durability.

It’s communicative, the clever man in his sectioned cupboard filled with memo payments and floral wherefores. My book club puts out fantastic commentaries for fighting Manga that is erstwhile all on its own station. I kind of want to read ahead and leave the others behind with their web comics and professional amoeba novels. At the same time I don’t want to spoil it for myself by contextualising going to bed. The words on the pages told me that in the beginning there was an unhealthy obsession with abscesses that couldn’t be tarnished by human hand alone so they roped in a few iguanas at the same time. Long story shortened, it didn’t work and the traitors fiddled about with car alarms until they went on all fucking night.

I’ve never intentionally bought into toboggans or sea shells. They just seem abstract by abseiling standards, just like pork chops are my undiscovered country. It’s the last vestige that makes me a difference in this big box of tissues and not a good one apparently. I am so ashamed, I really am.