To my beloved, cherished adult friends:
Words cannot express my deep, deep, deeeeeeeeeep (like the recesses of the ocean, where all those creepy eye-less fish live) desire to dine with you. Maybe here?
Maybe in a withered cardboard box on my sidewalk. It really doesn't matter. What matters is that I will not have to employ methods like timing you or racing you to get you to sit in your chair. Nor will I have to sit stuffed animals in the chair next to you and move their arms enthusiastically to prove that sitting at a table is fun.
It's fun, dammit!
I long to turn to you, mid-meal, and not have you sneeze or cough your dinner on me. I also eagerly anticipate your ability to discreetly remove unsavory food from your mouth instead of letting it avalanche down your lips and clothing and onto to the floor.
I love how you keep your utensils out of your nostrils, how you don’t need me to coerce food into your mouth by whistling, singing strange songs or by making a loud knocking sound that signals that the train conductor would like to be let into the station.
Mainly, I love that you'll just shut up and eat your vegetables.
Your ability to choose beverages—instead of screaming “nooooooooooooooo” because I mistakenly believed you wanted orange, not apple, juice—makes my heart flutter. (Or maybe that’s my leg hair fluttering? It has been a while since I’ve had more than 10 minutes to myself in the fricken shower.)
When we someday meet for dinner—next week? Tomorrow? Shall I come right now?— I hope you will look away as I cry into my plate. They are tears of joy. Tears free of strife, slimy germs and undesirable carrot chunks. Pure, unfettered tears.
I heart you and your meal prowess. Your ass looks fantastic in a chair that you don't need to be strapped into. Please don’t develop any freaky food issues from now until we can get together. That would kind of be the steak in the coffin.
Get it? Steak? Not stake?
Omigod I’m falling apart,
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