What are you doing in my kitchen? It’s too hot for you in here. Get out! There’s the mouldy stench of old cheese. There’s rancid lettuce in the fridge, and on the stove is a saucepan, the contents bubbling away, releasing tainted steam that you could breathe in. Yes, get out. You’re virtuous, pure, and anything as obscene as my kitchen isn’t for the likes of you.
I see past the veneers, those shiny pearly whites that smile, belying what you’re keeping inside. Those teeth, they’re liars—they’d take a bite out of my arse if I’m not careful. You think I don’t see that, but I do. I’ve always seen it, yet I chose not to say.
Your kitchen—now, there’s a thing. It’s cooler than mine, the temperature several degrees lower. It smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramalised sugar—mixed spice and all things nice. Your saucepan contains a gentle, simmering, beautiful concoction, and the steam coming from it filters through the air, out of your windows, and shows the world that you’re perfect, just perfect.
I’m standing in your kitchen, and beneath those delicious smells I scent the distinct aroma of bullshit, some years old, some freshly deposited, and you think I can’t smell it, but I do. And your saucepan. It deceives the eye. It is indeed bubbling over—you forgot to place a wooden spoon across the top of it, look—and those bubbles are made of mass deception and rampant infection. The latter causes scabs and sores, which fester over time, creating a buildup that will one day explode. Everything then oozes out, pouring beyond your control, and you rush to stem the flow. But the mop you hold isn’t enough to soak up the spillage; therefore, you must wait until the air flows through and dries it for you.
What, you didn’t think I could see the mess? Smell the stink? See the meaning beneath those exposed teeth of yours? Silly billy. I see more than you’ll ever know.
So, back to my kitchen. If you want to stand in it, despite the things inside, you’re welcome. I’ve exposed the skeletons—the mould on that cheese is my mistakes in life, the errors of my ways, the things I’ll own because I’m happy to admit when I’m wrong. And if you don’t like the mould, why are you still here? If, despite it, you’d like to sit at my table and eat, you’re welcome there too—until you disrespect my kitchen. If you do that, I’ll watch you take your first bite.
Without telling you that the food is poisoned.