I want a fancy dinner. At a restaurant. With mood lighting, and a starry night view. And a smiling bartender in black vest and starched white shirt. I want to feel intimidated by my waitresses’ manicure. I want blood red wine in a goblet that the candle on the table fights to be seen through. I want a scallop appetizer. the kind where it’s one giant scallop, slightly browned around the edges, set delicately upon a circle of reddish, yellow sauce like an eclipse. i want to joke about paying ten bucks for one giant scallop that i will proceed to eat in fourteen tiny bites as i pretend to be ladylike. i want a steak in the shape of a wolverine. i want to cut that steak with a giant shark’s tooth. i want to eat that steak like it’s the first one i’ve ever tasted. i want the blood to run down my chin and drip into my lap where dont worry there’s a napkin. i want to have a bite of yours. the sea bass in the shape of an earthquake. your sleeve will get too close to the candle and go up in flames. i want to lick those flames until they expire and i want you to thank me for saving your life. i want to finish the fancy artichoke side dish you can’t eat because your hand is cinders and totally unusable. i want to pay the waitress in pennies and smegma because it would spoil her intimidating manicure. i want to linger over dessert and bob up and down on it until i almost see that wolverine steak again, spreckled with bits of scallop and fancy artichoke side dish. blood, now white, running down my chin while not at all trying to be ladylike.


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