When we first met, she seemed beautiful, young, eager, and promised to learn to cook really well. As time went on, I noticed she was putting on a lot of makeup. More than normal. Perhaps she has a skin condition, I thought. As more time went on, I noticed she was squeezing into a corset each day before I saw her. Perhaps she is just big-boned, I thought. As more time went on, I noticed she was not only failing miserably at cooking, but perhaps she really believed she was on the verge of discovering a great new dish to serve me. Or, did she have a cooking problem? I could not tell. As more time went on, I began to sneak peeks of her behind closed doors without the makeup and the corset. It was very hard to find these small cracks to peer through because I had to sneak around and ask questions of some of her friends, and they were very good at hiding the location of the cracks.
She was not what I believed at all, but a hideous, fat, and ugly person. Everyday she had been whispering in my ear sweet nothings and promises of a wonderful bounty to light my tastebuds on fire. Her words were always golden but over time they became like a fingernail on a chalkboard. I began to see she was taking more ingredients out of the pot than putting in and began to have doubts about the final outcome of the dish. How might it be great with so little quality ingredients in it? In addition, one of her closest friends was actually spitting in the pot.
Then, when I began to see her inviting dozens of other fellows over to my house with even sweeter words and telling each of them to not tell anyone about her amazing dish that was almost ready to serve, knowing full well that each one would tell many others about the bounty coming before them soon, I finally figured out her game. It was a bottomless pot being filled with the hopes and desires of many people and it kept her in beautiful makeup and corsets (and car payments and skiing trips, and gambling chips) and most of all, amazing and delicious meals nothing like the poison she knew was waiting for us.
So I left her and began hunting for another who did not have to wear a corset and makeup. The contents of her cooking pot would not make me fat, but I could exist perhaps on eye candy alone and not have to worry about being poisoned.
The moral of this story is, you get what you pay for. If a beautiful girl is selling kisses for pennies, don't wipe off her makeup or cut her corset. And certainly don't eat what's in the pot behind her where you paid for your kiss. Oh, I'd wash my lips also. |
