You spicy little bitch, you.
I see the way you sit there on my shelf, taunting me with your red glow, beckoning me to pick you up and cradle you in my arms. I see the way your label warns me that you’re going to burn, and you know what? I don’t even care. I don’t love you in spite of the pain you cause, I love you because of the pain you cause.You get me. You get inside of me like no one else. (Heh. Gross)You play on my food like a drunk skank on the dancefloor. By which I mean, you’re messy and I like it. You get all over my fingers (let’s back away from the skank analogy now) and I’m okay with that, but we have an agreement, remember? Stay the fuck out of my eyes. I know you’ve stuck your spicy self in there before, and we managed to get through it, but times were rough for awhile and I didn’t like not being able to trust you. Please don’t make me question you again. We have something special.
Together, you and I are invincible. The tasteless, grey world of cheap, shitty food is not of concern to us. We dominate that shit and make it our bitch. When all is said and done, I can bask in the orgasmic burn of my stinging tongue, satisfied by a job well done. You kick me from the inside to remind me you’re still there. Thank you for that. I remember you fondly when you’re gone. (Mostly. I’ll avoid talking about burning poop. For now.)But you know what, you crazy, firey SOB? There once was a time when you and I were not friends. I’d look right past you in the fridge; I’d turn you down at restaurants. I’d walk by your slender, crimson body as I wondered what was missing from my bland, melancholic pizza. It was you all along. You were the banana to my peanut butter. I could tell from your demeanor that you had been waiting for me to grab you and envelop your spicy, glorious juices with my eager taste buds. And you know what? I did just that. Oh yes, I fucking did. And you were everything a person could ever want in their mouth. And you still are.Just stay away from my snatch, k?XOXOXOLove,