I am earning enough to keep my family from starving like they used to, but I remember in their hunger came a happiness to them that I’m not quite sure they saw as I did. There were nights I’d come home, bursting through the door with fish fry, and their long droopy faces would snap taut with jovial grins. I was the happy food-bringing man. Now the cock suckers are unimpressed with my food-bringing.
It’s like the time you first grew tired of your favorite thing. A tongue can go limp to any candy, just give enough sugar to the bitch and you’ll see. Chocolate gives me acid reflux which is another issue altogether. I don’t tire of chocolate’s richness, nor does another edible thing come to mind which could fill chocolate’s spot as the greatest tasting thing on earth to me; the issue comes from the depths of my viscera, wherein the chocolate meets with my stomach acid and has a disagreement over the seating arrangement. There is something within my bile that irks chocolate to no end; I think my negative energy resides there.
My family must starve. I must tell the people I go hunting with to shut their fucking mouths about what we catch. If word gets to my family that I’ve been hiding fish they’ll think me mad. But I can continue to eat as I’ve been; my behavior hasn’t changed, it isn’t me who needs a lesson in appreciation. I remain in tact of my character through hunger and satiation, in regards to all things– the mental and the physical. I can tell the boys that I don’t have a family anymore, there there, that’s it. I’ll tell them they ate a fish too spicy, the spice penetrated their bowels and made them shit fire. The boys will buy that. If they should ask to come inside, I’ll tell them to fuck off.
I’m not trying to starve my family to death. I just want to make things like they were before. When we were in the struggle they appreciated things a lot more, now I see my wife stir soup with her toe. Let her then starve until her satiation becomes a faint memory, a thing she can’t distinguish between a dream or reality. Let her reminisce over the days she’d had grains rain over her, wherein the milk she swam in kept afloat neck high the wheat for her to easily devour like a fucking crocodile snapping shut its jaws. Let my wife and kids be hungry reptilian cunts, if it means they’ll treat me like the food-bringing man that I am again.
General