What if we bestowed upon each other adjectives normally designated to lifeless objects? ie. food?
What if I said you looked like cream cheese and that your skin exudes the sweetness of burnt coconut oil? You’d probably say I’m full of shit. To which I’d respond I’m on a detox so, no, I am actually not full of shit. In fact, all the toxins I once had, the soppy insecurities and the putrid hesitation, are currently being flushed into sewers in some Munich back alley. Flushed. Like your face when it’s a little too chilly outside. Dirty. Like your eyes when that girl with the huge ass struts into your line of vision. Deserted. Like your nose, so estranged from your eyes and from any other facial feature, almost as if it had country barriers branching a mile radius. Don’t you worry. Some people find asymmetrical faces captivating, maddening, enigmatic. Kind of like they do horror movies.
What if I said you had the sexual appeal of a house fern? After a steamy night ravishing a man’s caramelised and glazed body, he admits you are rather generous, if a bit frozen, in bed. Dry, he says, stale. Perhaps you are just a bit unseasoned? When was the last time you were tossed and baked, roasted and layered, spiral-cut and steamed? At least he said you’re non-fat. That has to count for something.
What if someone said your humor is kosher? Would you slap them, skewer them and set them out to dry? You dish out ice-cold wit, sharp humor, whipped puns and lean, bared-to-the-bone thoughts. Or so you’d like to think. The cutting truth is that you’re somewhat bland and there’s no amount of seasoning that will penetrate the soft insipid hollow of your mind. It’s already too marinated with a mixture of sugarcoated beliefs and flaky standards concocted by society. You cover your grease and layer the gritty, watering down the potentially piquant and pungent, reducing yourself to something, someone, else entirely. Because if you didn’t, that would probably result in a lukewarm reception from everyone else. You’re okay with being palatable.