Fucking waffle

I have a couch-lock after hitting the bong a 5th time in 2 hours. I feel disoriented and confused. I switch between tasks sucking on my dopamine juice. Waffles with whipped cream and maple syrup..

fuck it im not microwaving it, i'll eat it from the table..

an attempt to kickstart the long dead child inside of me. Worried, I inhale the waffle. I moved from chewing and digesting through the stomach to inhaling and digesting with my lungs. I thought, it does not matter, whether I inhale one or two waffles. A beautifully prepared waffle, with steam above its surface, from the damp, moist, fluffy dough soaked with maple syrup. That can wake up feelings in me, that I believe is what people mean when they talk of the undying love towards their children.
A constant drive to amplify, multiply, improve what already is.

"What if I add jam as well?" ...  

I add jam. When I add jam to my already way too nasty guilty desert I get naughty with it

Yeah baby smear that shit all over you

I smack it with the knife so I can hear the Jam splatter. My mouth is watering uncontrollably. As I carry the plate to my office table, droplets of maple syrup are left behind me as a snail trail of guilt.

I dont want the waffle to be covered, I want it to be filled.  

I grab a berry and forcefully shove it in the waffle. The waffle screams in agony as it gives birth to a whipped cream strawberry man. I name it stan cause I can. Our eyes meet. Stan has fleet feet but he is in need of speed if he battles me. I grab his head I twist it fast, I eat him, starting with the breast. I crave his heart, I dig through the chest. I call this a blatant third breakfast.