Sunflower Skins

June 18, 2010

Sketches, Experiment 8: I’m Sorry, But I Just Can’t Eat It

Filed under: experiments, prose — Tags: , , — Sunflower Skins @ 1:20 am

I’M SORRY, BUT I JUST CAN’T EAT IT

The cake looks delicious, it’s true. One of those homemade, surprisingly well put-together jobs by the family “chef.” I have taken a few bites to be polite. There’s too much sugar in the frosting—too sweet, it will overpower the raspberries and ruin the aftertaste if one chooses to eat the decoration. Which I don’t. Seeds in the teeth.

I take a look at the form.

The cake, moist, whipped well, icing dripping—so enticing—each slice cut to a perfect isosceles triangle, topped with large, fresh raspberries—and served on… drum roll… dollar store paper plates. Nice presentation, folks.

Only a monster could look at this and not want to eat anything. Then I am a monster. But I have good taste.

I look around the party: the birthday girl, just turned four, wearing a Dora the Explorer sweatshirt—I fucking hate Dora; the girl’s brother, older, on his third slice of cake already—and he’s engaged with his cousin in an eating contest; a dozen senile residents slobbering over themselves and the children; the totally inattentive, self-absorbed mother, whose own mother—Marilyn Brooks—the one responsible for this idiotic display of affection. I roll my eyes at my father, but he just gives me that What-do-I-know-Look. After all, I suppose I agreed to visit on this particular afternoon. I knew what loathsome humanity I’d come across.

Yet I come across it everywhere.

In every restaurant I see it, in every mall food court. Amongst concession stands at the ball parks and amid church bake sales. You people disgust me. Look at how you consume culture! Ooh, lookie! Hotdog stand flavoured chips.

The stench of the home has overwhelmed me. Must. get. fresh. air. So what if I’m being a little dramatic today? Being around children, even extraordinarily outgoing ones, makes me feel silly myself. Even though my childhood wasn’t silly. But I don’t want to play with other children right now—I’m cutting short my visit with father because I want to play with knives.

I remember reading: If there’s one thing that I despise, it’s the sound of steak sobbing—and smiling a little smile to myself. Perhaps I’m not alone in my playful thoughts.

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