Cooking Ignorance

I was given a crock pot and recipe book, which I opened once and got a headache reading a few. Too complicated.
I gave both to the Salvation Army.
I should learn to cook, but when you are this country's foremost flash fiction writer there are other priorities. My cooking friends claim it is easy. When you're afraid of opening the oven, let alone turning it on, that is an issue.
Ovens are basically evil.
All my serious cooking is done inside my head when I am bursting through a writing project and ideas assault me from everywhere. I am a brick oven pizza above the neck, aflame with anchovy alliteration, an absurdist chef with an apron stained with imagination.
Talk about muscular prose.

Cards on the Table

Will had a poker face, making it impossible to know what he was feeling. His project was to build a gazebo and Emily, his foreperson, was frustrated. I need more feedback, she complained.
Cards on the table, Will. Are you all in on this? A sturdy, elegant gazebo changes a town's personality and creates a meeting place.
Will understood her point, but explained his ambivalence. A gazebo is the frightening gateway to folk singers. They will converge from miles around, singing of clean air and water, pipelines, immigrants, health care, the broken middle class, not enough portable toilets, parks and park benches. Depressed people will stay home and eventually poets will arrive and take over our streetsbecause the folkies won't abandon this gazebo.
Will and Emily hugged. An early arriving folkie applauded.

The Problem

The problem is my bloated belly. A shame that body part diverts attention from my more impressive features. Removing navel lnt is not a solution. My doctor says I must given up potatoes. My existences revolves around that food staple. Stay away from carbs. The universe is full of carbs. Might as well tell me to stop breathing.
At the gym I envy flat bellied creatures. I could suck it in, but that is blatant denial.I am salivating for a Wendy's baked potato with all the toppings. All these young people eating everything they want, seeing me as a paunchy old guy who moves slow.
I hope Obama gets fat in retirement. No carbs make me cruel and insensitive.

Acting Impulsively

Kile's life was completely ordered and planned. He never made a move without analyzing the consequences. Every Wednesday from 10 to 11am he sat on the same bench in the same park meditating.
One day he opened his eyes and saw a squirrel staring at him. Their eyes met and a connection was formed. He was touched. Kile reached into his pocket where he always kept 21 white Tic Tacs and tossed some to the animal. It swallowed them and rolled around in ecstasy. Kile was bemused.
Every Wednesday he did the same thing with what he was sure was the same squirrel. One day, while walking, he discovered a racoon leaping from the bushes. He tossed some Tic Tacs at it, hoping for another connection with nature. This time EMS workers had to be called to tranquilize the beast so they could pry it from Kile's neck.
As he recovered, Kile realized impulsiveness had consequences. When he returned to the park the cold had driven away the squirrels and he was alone with his Tic Tacs and well ordered life.

My Greatest Sacrifice

I had a perfectly good life as a Boy Toy. Women could use me and pass me along to other older ladies. I fulfilled a need without having to go to work at some factory.
One day some of us Boy Toys were having brunch and Allen mentioned an article he'd read in Boy Toy Month;ly by a former BT, who declared this was a shallow way to live and we should be ashamed of ourselves. Much debate ensued. Yes, Boy Toys do debate occasionally.
When I got home I began thinking. It gave me a headache, but I questioned whether there was more I was capable of. It would have been simple to transition to Chic Magnet, but I made a sacrifice. I let my hair fall out, lost my six pack abs and abandoned my perfect posture.
I became a writer. Now I have gravitas, respect and substance.
Sometimes, just for fun, I will flash some chest hair, but I will never go back. Gravitas does not grow on trees.

Sink or Swim

Frank knew opening a garter belt shop was a gamble. They were not as popular as in the past. He has 16 different colors and fabrics. He came up with a novel promotion--edible garter belts. Get the customers in the store, then push the other products.
He discovered he needed something more. Condiments. Once he stocked relish, mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, in store traffic exploded. His garter belts were flying off the shelf. Now he wants to open a second shop for men--edible cummerbunds. At some point he will try to market edible suspenders and cuff links. Making love and dining will be simultaneous.
This is a gamble, but as with any business venture, it is a sink or swim proposition.

Bikini Rage

So the Suburban Princess posts a shot of her in a bikini on Valentine's Day and I share it, figuring her positive message to other young women is I don't have a guy, but I still feel good about myself.
Bam! Delete that, she messages me. Immediately! No polite request.
Huh? What did I do? I didn't ask her to post it. Once it's out there you can't dictate what others do with a post. They can ignore it, hit Like or Love or Sad or make a comment or share or any combination of the above. Short of making racist remarks, all of that is appropriate.
Before that, she posts an eight year old video of her and a friend learning Spanish. And before that, a photo of her and her brother mooning the camera. I never asked to see this stuff.
While this nonsense is put out there, never does she post samples of her writing, which can then be linked to her website. She ignores all my suggestions to succeed as a scribe.
Plus, with all the stuff going on in our government, she never posts a single opinion about anything. Meanwhile, we have to see shots of her new hairstyle or outfit. This is an Ivy League graduate.
Suburban Princess thinks she's Tyra Banks.
So I un-friended her. She too self absorbed to even notice. No wonder she's single.