Bacon isn’t the miracle cure its made out to be…

Life is a sexually transmitted disease… with 100% mortality.

I hate that hallway of shame that you find in a Doctors office. Where they weigh you, measure you and ultimately make you lie about how much you eat, or how much alcohol you consume on a daily basis.

The arm-cuffs on blood pressure machines are little shits. They inflate, it hurts… and then keep on inflating until you end up locked in this life-or-death battle with a little robot, which is only trying to tell you whether you’re pre-dead or not.

Whenever I’m in for a heart examination, I tell them that there is always a rough side to my heart. Its beside the piggy bits and craves a certain sweetness. The sweetness that it wants is half heart flavour, half bacon flavour and there are times when I’m more vulnerable to that sweetness. Its usually when I’m down, when I’m afraid or when I’m apart from someone or something.

I think that sweetness is purely love. No pain, no complexity.
Just surrounded by its warmth.

This sweetness is something that, as a kid, I saw in the homes of my friends. In the moments when I was invited into the privacy of their families, and I was hugged by Aunts and Uncles that I’d never met before, but that loved me for that brief moment.


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