To My Dear and Secret friend,
I want to write you a story, but I seem to be having great difficulty. I'm trying to think of something symbolic to eat in my story, something I can metaphorically devour. Maybe something with a figurative smile so that I can appear dark and pessimistic. I am eating a woman's face, but I'm a cinnamon bun.
Funny how my being a cinnamon bun instantly justifies eating a woman's face. I think everyone loves a cinnamon bun and the people who don't love them are lying.
I mean, those people aren't fine with merely "not liking" cinnamon buns, they have to hate them with all their envy infested selves. To them, there is no such thing as "middle ground" when it comes to liking cinnamon buns. Please, let me explain. Pretty please.
Aw, will you really let me? Really? You're so nice.
I think hate infers that love once existed and has now been replaced with other things like bitterness, resentment, and envy. In the case of the bun-haters, they are full it. They are the Lucifers to God's cinnamon buns.
They wish they could be rich in flavour and soft in complexion. They are amazed at the intricacy of texture and taste, and how the two intertwine to form such enviable richness, so eternally golden and juicy. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Om nom nom nom. Nom. Nom. Nom. Om nom.
I wish I could be so golden and juicy, and with freckled cinna-spice? Yes, please.
It's envy. These people are full of envy. Perhaps, they envy the power that cinnamon buns possess, or maybe they just want to be loved. We all want to be loved like cinnamon buns.
Pour some sugar on me.
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